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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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THE LAYS 

of a 

BOHEMIAN. 



BEING SOME OF THE METRICAL CONCEITS 
OF 

SCOTT R. SHERWOOD. 



So, when my Lays before the Carp- , 
My leaves unto the wind — £ 



I fling, remember that my Harp 
Is tuned to hymn my mind, ; . p£J j Hhy (C 

!wa 



In mood as it reflects a Soul- 

Not your's, but God's alone- 
Of which is cradled here first Foal, 

If needs, let God atone ! 

Bohemian Song, (p. 8.) 



BRENTANO 


BROS., PUBLSHERS, 






NEW YORK. 






5 U] 


nion Square. 




CHICAGO: 




WASHINGTON : 




i o i State Street. 




1015 Pennsylvania 


Ave. 



1885. 






Copyright, 1885. 
By SCOTT R. SHERWOOD. 

^/i rights reserved. 






WOOD & BLONDEL PRINTERS, 
NEW YORK 



TO THE 

Inspirations of the Thought, 

AND THE 

Associations of the Name, 
of 

Anna Frances 



CONTENTS. 



PEOEM I 

BOHEMIAN SONG & 

MY DAY OF BEST 11 

My 'Scutcheon 15 

A Poet's Introspect 17 

Your Heaven, and Mine 20 

Faith. 21 

My Thanksgiving 23 

Illusion's Lesson 25 

Above the Clouds, 26 

Althazar's Gift 28 

Memory's Choice 31 

Musings ; Fkom a Philosopher's Portfolio. . . 32 

The Puzzle ... 34r 



CONTENTS. 

MY SHBINE 37 

I Have Been Loved 39 

Love 42 

Love's Psychology 44 

Love's Response 45 

The Missing Notes 46 

Oub Tryst 47 

Too Late 50 

Of What Avail? 51 

To Flora (of the Demi-monde.) 53 

My Spring is Here 54 

Love Hath no Bourne 55 

Althazar's Wooing. (A Love Letter. ) 57 

Fatal Hue 60 

That Portrait — Whose ? 62 

Love Alone Can Save the Heart; (A Song.). . . 63 

Francesca's Reverie 66 

Althazar's Muse. (A Reverie.) 68 

Love's Greeting 70 

A Thrill 71 

My Sanctum 72 

Alas, Dear Wife of My Soul 74 

Love's Bard 76 

We Must Live Again 77 

Our Holiday 78 

Confection 79 

In Memoriam 80 

A Lover's Hymnal 82 



CONTENTS. 

ALTHAZAK'S MISSION 85 

Brook No King 91 

My Reverence 94 

Noblesse Oblige 97 

Soul Sinister 101 

Trust Not Appearances 102 

A SHADE 107 

Occult 108 

Mrs- Allied 110 

ASigh Ill 

Fair and False 112 

First Love's Adieu 114 

It Cannot Be. (A Response.) 115 

Questioning 116 

I Fain Would Soft Preach Her 118 

November to May 120 

By The Sea. (To , A Coquette.) 121 

She'll Understand 124 

MY HOSTAGES 127 

BONBONTERE 131 

A Few Carreer Moulttngs. 

Age Matters Not to Me 133 

She Would Not Wait 133 

No Tiding 134 

A Tang Leaf 134 

Depending Upon Circumstances 135 

A Valentine 138 



CONTENTS. 

THE POKTENT 141 

Two Antiquarian Models. 

I.— His St. Valentine's Ode— To His Grandson 134 

n.— Her St. Valentine's Ode— To Her Grand-daughter. . . 144 

Jennie Bradshaw 145 

AMONG THE KECBUITS 151 

The Mercenary Woman 154 

He Can Plat on the Piano 156 

Sacredly Invested 157 

To My Critic 159 

NOTES 165 



PROEM. 



Apollo's hest, 

In hour of rest. 
To tune and strike my lyre, 

I here obey — 

The dull work-day 
Abandoning for higher 

Paths than are trod 

By crown or clod 
In sequestrated home — 

My fancies free 

From apogee 
To flood to reckless roam — 

Blue skies to skim, 

Broad oceans swim, 
Bold mountain crests surmount ; 

Through forests glide — 

On Phoebus 'stride — 
Nor verse, nor metre count, 

Since weed and floss 

Each other cross 
In all life's journey through — 

Faint to descry 

Dull human eye 
The false from that is true. 



My Day of Rest, 

My soul's bequest 
To my adored — the themes 

My heart approves 

Or spirit moves — 
Of thought the fruit, or dreams — 

I sing, and sing — 

Aye wandering — 
By no restrictions bound, 

Content to soar 

Or fall, not more 
Responding for than found. 

My hours I choose 

In sweet recluse 
For meditation's gifts, 

When dulcet spring 

The chimes that ring 
From grander domes and rifts 

Than steeples pierce, 

Or bishops, fierce, 
With bulls and canons reach — 

The domes that glow 

With sacred flow 
From Lights Jove's Essence preach. 



THE LAYS OF A BOHEMIAN. 



\ 



BOHEMIAN SONG. 



BOHEMIAN SONG. 



I am a true Bohemian; 

I scoff at rote or rule — 
Deem myself good as any man, 

No more or less a fool — 
Live where I am, fare as I may — 

Am pleased with any lot — 
Remember friends, and never lay 

A grudge for them are not. 

I love fair face, wherever met; 

Sweet-heart I love still more, 
And pity all who never yet 

Of pity have found store; 
For love and pity true are kin, 

And all my sorrow here 
Is for the many never win 

From fellow-kind a tear. 



BOHEMIAN SONG. 

I favor give to them I like, 

And take from them who please 
To give to me because I strike 

As one who can appease 
The wish of sympathy — that glows 

In every human heart, 
Yet fondest utterance bestows 

On like's responsive part. 

I press my views on no man's glass, 

Nor reflect his from mine, 
Since God's intent, 'tis plain, alas ! 

For reasons wise, divine, 
Was not, in his broad universe, 

To make twin moon or sun, 
Two minds to think, two bards to verse, 

Two hearts to beat — as one. 

I drink the breezes softly waft, 

And gratefully exhale; 
With awe, the lightning's gleam and shaft 

Watch, flashing through the gale; 
View, pensively, the torrents roar, 

The waves, mid-ocean, toss, 
The stars the azure gemming o'er, 

And feel there is no loss. 



BOHEMIAN SONG. 

Aye ! Everything to me is gain, 

For everything seems new — 
And always new, tho'seen again, 

And grand, from any view, 
Because a true Bohemian 

Am I, and make my nest 
Where'er I chance, and let no man 

Abridge my heart's behest — 

To rove the desert, sail the seas, 

Mid' waste, or peopled town — 
Oft lingering in climes where freeze 

The veins, or insects drown — 
In humming myriads — the air, 

Imbred by torrid wave, 
Or in old sepulchres that glare 

With stones the eras lave. 

And wheresoe'er I stray or wait, 

Or tarry, feast, or love, 
Ai matin's dawn, or vesper late, 

I never care to move 
One pace beyond where I may rest, 

Or rise, or list, or hie — 
Since every line my lot the best 

For me, e'en when I die. 



BOHEMIAN SONG. 



So, when my Lays before the Carp — 

My leaves unto the wind — 
I fling, remember that my Harp 

Is tuned to hymn my mind, 
In mood as it reflects a Soul — 

Not your's, but God's alone — 
Of which is cradled here first Foal, — 

If needs, let God atone ! 



THE LAYS OF A BOHEMIAN. 



I. 



Now calm reflections rule the hour — 

Our thoughts upraise to heights 
Whence soar the truths that brightly flower, 

Amid earth's wastes and blights, 
To teach the grandeur of the soul, 

Reveal our better part, 
Lift from the quicksand and the shoal 

Of life the surging heart. 



A Poet's Introspect, {Page 17). 



MY DAY OF REST. VL 



MY DAY OF BEST. 



My day of rest is not constrained by special creed; 

No sect, assuming G-od's prerogative, my grace 
May claim; denominations, none a title-deed 

Can forge to swerve my conscience from its altar- 
place. 

My Sabbath's recreation, as befits my mood, 

Is found beneath the shelter of my tree and vine, 
Where my best hopes, desires, all that in me is 
good 
Plead my true cause most potently to Eye 
Divine. 

Here, in the shadow of my oaks, whose stature grand, 

Whose massive trunks, far-reaching limbs, and 

foliage dense 

Have spread a canopy, contrived by nature's hand, 

Behold my church — of broadest trust, of least 

pretense. 



12 MY DAY OF REST. 

No architect my temple has been hired to build; 
For it no priests, from rich or poor, alms beg or 
force; 
At eve, or mass, ne'erless, with worshipers are filled 
Its corridors, aisles, naves — with a sublime con- 
course 



Of myriads of moving, breathing miniatures — 
Of God's conceptions living semblances — de- 
signed 
For spheres as useful and complete as earth's or 
your's, 
Tho' not to rituals conformed or rites confined. 



I draw my inspiration — my encouragement 

In my deep faith — from all these varied forms, 
the orbs 
Which give them life and heat, the clouds their 
nourishment, 
The soil that all our being, effort, hope absorbs. 



My choir — the strain of birds, the droning of the 
bees, 
The frog's bass-croak, the hoot-owl's monody, 
the low 



MY DAY OF BEST. 13 

Of kine, the bleat of lambs, the neigh of steeds, the 
breeze 
That wafts — e'er sigh or moan — as winds or 
zephyrs blow. 

My preacher — a wee child, who innocently sings 
Her tuneful carol, plucking daisies from the green, 

Or gambols with her kitten, or in hammock swings 
So cheerily, I peer — at risk of being seen. 



As sheltered by a fir, I scan her face, and eyes 
Of violet — beaming thought and love — to heav'n 
turned, 
So 'rapt her spirit seems beyond the stars would 
rise, 
She frames a sermon wisely-lessoned, if not 
learned. 



My little priest — inspired by nature's soulful text — 
Exhales an incense sweet with Faith, Hope, 
Charity; — 
How happy, all mankind, like her! How rarely 
vexed 
Their courses, could they guileless dwell in 
parity ! 



U MY DAY OF REST. 

If I nor bow, nor bend my knee, nor clasp my 
palms 
In prayer, I feel a yearning which God may 
have read 
With his omniscient eye: — For all I crave the 
balms 
Our purest years would yield the living and the 
dead. 



The wish divine doth spring — so tenderly, I pray : 
Yon spotless soul, irradiating gentleness, 

All gladness, mercy, good the young alone display, 
May virtue guard, truth save, and circumstances 

bless ! 



MY 'SCUTCHEON. 15 



MY 'SCUTCHEON. 



My 'Scutcheon is my Heart — 

Borne close within my breast, 
"Whence it can none impart — 

Save me — its seal and crest; 
Its priv'lege ne'er to start 

At aught save God's behest — 
It is a kingly chart, 

Aye serving me the best. 

It is my mark and sign — 

My mark and sign alone; 
For ev'ry error mine 

It only can atone; 
To me the Eight Divine 

Within its tendrils grown; 
And no man may opine 

If it be mild or stone. 



16 MY 'SCUTCHEON. 

My father could not give — 

It came to me from God. 
My son I cannot leave 

When I beneath the sod. 
For me it may conceive 

Alone — or soothe, or prod, 
Or hate, or love, or grieve — 

Control'd by no man's nod. 



As no two things alike, 

Or ever koown to be — 
Beware ! The hand would spike 

The coat design'd my tree. — 
Beware ! Who'd dare to strike 

From me its blazonry. — 
Beware ! Who'd forge a dike 

To stem its floods — e'er free ! 



A POETS INTROSPECT. 17 



A POET'S INTEOSPECT. 



How varying the moods that move 

The pulses of the brain — 
Through chords supremely touched by love, 

Or frets with hate that strain — 
Through meditation's solemn trance 

Or fancy's lightsome pace, 
As pranks and humors lead the dance 

Or with vagaries chase. 

Now calm reflections rule the hour — 

Our thoughts upraise to heights 
Whence sown the truths that brightly flower, 

Amid earth's wastes and blights, 
To teach the grandeur of the soul, 

Keveal our better part, 
Lift from the quicksand and the shoal 

Of life the surging heart. 



18 A POET'S INTROSPECT. 

Then sweet emotions, tinged divine 

By heaven's chast'ning breath, 
Throb o'er the arbors that entwine 

Our hopes — in life and death, 
Yield blossoms that enchant and thrall, 

Waft perfumes that diffuse 
Love's subtle incense throughout all 

The harpings of the muse. 

Next, brief conceits the mind invade 

And capture to express 
Trite theories, or theses staid, 

Or clamors for redress 
Of wrongs and errors by the plane 

Of worldly squares and rules, 
Not heeding how diseased the grain 

Of sense in human fools. 

Or chirping fancies frisk and leap 

From idle whims, and seize 
The effervescing thoughts that sweep 

The skies, o'er gale or breeze — 
Or whirl with eddies, buff with tide, 

Or pierce the vapid mists, 
Or in the coach of humor ride, 

Or mime in comic lists. 



A POET'S INTROSPECT. 19 

Or bubbling quirks the surface rise, 

To ripple for a trice, 
And bring a smile to saddened eyes — 

A moment loose the vice 
That shuts from sympathy its kin 

Or fellowship with mirth — 
Evoking transports that begin 

To mold athwart their birth. 

Of wild caprices, with their fumes 

And vapors, wierdly glow 
Above the hum of labor's looms, 

Yet far the stars below — 
In frolic verse, or rollic rhyme, 

"Wild warbles fife, or freaks 
Fantastically ring on chimes, 

'Mid laughter's gleeful shrieks. 

Or satire, musing Damascene, 

Hypocrisy lays bare, 
And falsehood pricks with blade so keen 

That honesty seems fair, 
Sweet virtue for a moment blest — 

Alike for drones and plods, 
Rare truth aroused from stubborn rest, 

The scale of justice God's. 



YOUR HEAVEN, AND MINE. 



YOUR HEAVEN, AND MINE. 



Tour bliss in hope subsists, in contemplation mine ; 
Your paradise, of fruits to bear, a vision grows, 
While on my past the radiance of heav'n bestows 

A charm — illu'ming garlands oft the tombs entwine. 

Supremest joy to me experiences reveal — 

In friendship, that shall, with my faculties, 

endure — 
In love, haloed by confidences that ensure 

A trust so perfect ho vague myst'ries may conceal. 

Seek, if you please, in the hereafter your repose ; 

But strive not me to wean from my content. 

On raptures felt my reverie can dwell intent — 
Not heeding, through the shades, what life doth 
not disclose. 



FAITH. 21 

FAITH. 



Every thing and thought doth breed — 

Sure as man or beast; 
Not a breath our pulses speed 

Dies, e'en life hath ceased. 
* * * 

Every blessing, for its meed 

Grateful thrill, at least; 
Every sorrow by the seed 

Of cruelty increased; 
Every penny lost to greed 

Some poor waif doth feast; 
Every whim, tho' none may heed, 

Hath some fate capriced. 

Landscapes grand, and glowing skies 

From the canvass spring; 
Yearning hearts, and soulful sighs 

Muses move to sing; 
Deeds, from noble thoughts that rise, 

Eloquence doth wing; 
Tyrant's heel, and heroes' cries 

Freedom's echo bring. 

Guillotine and gibbet spawn 

Criticism's staves; 
From the nightly flagon dawn 

Thieves, assassins, knaves; 



22 FAITH. 

Wanton souls and bodies fawn 
Dens that mis'ry laves, 

Bitterer, with tears, than drawn 
E'er by hallowed graves. 

In our dream, or waking trance — 
Joys and dreads intense ; 

Yield the race, the chase, the dance 
Foils for reason's fence ; 

Not a movement or a glance 
Void of consequence; 

Gleams a ray the sun's bright lance- 
Cast a shadow thence. 



Yet o'er heaven's necromance 

Spreads a vail so dense, 
None may know if Supreme Chance 

Guideth more than Sense. 



MY THANKSGIVING. 23 



MY THANKSGIVING. 



Thanks to my Heart ! — It grateful drinks God's air — 
Quick-throbbing to the glance of love, and voice 

Of liberty — all things beholding fan- 
In nature, and in man — when doth rejoice 

Man in his manhood, scorning all untruth, 
When from injustice quiver and recoil 

His thoughts, and when he doth defy, not ruth 
Of words or blows, the touch would virtue soil. 

Thanks to my Soul ! — Content it lingers here — 

From the productive soil of this rich earth 
Gleaning the food — the sweets no other sphere 

Can wean me from before my second birth 
May follow all I know of life or death, 

Or care to know of things beyond my life, 
"Whose fitful scenes, and thoughts and acts — each 
breath 

New drawn — prove me with little knowledge rife. 

Thanks to my Body ! — It would not ascend 
To sun, or moon, or twinkling star, or soar 

Beyond sparks visible, or yet descend 

The bowels of the world, to mine and score 



24 MY THANKSGIVING. 

The notches by which greed would aid me gain 
The luxuries to mark me — from my kind — 

A gilded something set apart to stain 
And blot the true fraternity of mind ! 

Thanks to my Senses ! — All of them revolt 

At evry custom that impedes their right 
To make my lot a joy, or that would molt 

My freedom to indulge — false caste despite — 
The fruits of labor, love and honest toil, 

And to resent perversion of God's law 
By superstition's torch, or tyrant's coil 

Alluring man's cupidity and awe. 

Thanks to Myself ! — I am that which I am — 

Nothing higher or lower, more or less — 
Nothing shorter or taller, tho' you damn 

My size, or criticise my shape, and guess 
I might, or ought to think, or do, or seem 

The very opposite of that I love 
The best — My own true self, the which can gleam 

But one Light e'er eclipsing — that of Jove ! 



ILLUSION'S LESSON. 25 

ILLUSION'S LESSON. 



Empty as an echo, 

Hollow as a sound, 
Ev'ry thought and action 

Compass'd by the bound 
Of this world's horizon, — 

Nor will e'er be found 
Truth, save fate hath somewhere 

Brook'd of hallow'd ground. 

Ev'ry cloud that crosses 

The ethereal blue, 
Ev'ry wind that courses 

Plain or forest through, 
Carryeth delusion — 

Howsoe'er we view 
Cause or aim — illusion 

Hiding all is true ; 

Making sweet with incense 

What is often blight ; 
Honest feeling intense 

To defeat the right; 
Pious vows a pretense 

To obscure the sight; 
Life, but experience — 

Teaching : " God is Might." 



26 ABOVE THE CLOUDS. 

ABOVE THE CLOUDS. 



I 

How dwarf 'd and paltry seem the ways, how 
cramp'd the views of men, 
Their poverty of scope how mean, their aims 

how desultore, 
As from the boulder'd mountain's cleft my 
thoughts, untrammel'd, soar 
A moment toward Infinity, then droop below again ! 

n. 

Oh ! That I might here plant my hearthstone — far 
above the clouds, 
My home might rear behind the mists envailing 

man's trite schemes, 
My poor desires uplift to where my life would 
flit in dreams 
Far sweeter than the pleasures that delude earth's 
fickle crowds ! 

ni. 

Or that I might, o'er ocean thence, be borne — to 
island lone, 
My bark abandon there enwrecked, fast foun- 

der'd in the sand, 
By surf encircled evermore, so should my heart 
withstand 
Blind passion's petty groveling — in envy's emmet 
zone! 



ABOVE THE CLOUDS. 27 

IV. 

Cast me amid the waves and breakers, 'neath the 
lightning's glare, 
If they may serve emancipate me from earth's 

tiring jars 
And bickerings, so waste that — no less by sun's 
blaze, than stars' 
Pale gleam, on life at rest — man's labor seems of 
fruit shorn bare ! 

Y. 

No prize the world can designate to tempt ambi- 
tion's greed, 
Or opiates the subtlest skill extract to sense 

beguile, 
Can charm me from this crest, whence leaps my 
soul tow'rd heaven's smile — 
Spreading so omnipresently, revealing all I need. 



28 ALTHAZARS GIFT. 

ALTHAZAE'S GIFT. 



There is an intuition in the minds of some so keen 
It seems a direct gift from God — by which are 
read the signs 
That mark the inner hearts of other men — through 
which are seen 
The motives of their surface acts— their souls' 
work and designs. 

What by Althazar's circle oft is termed satiety 
Is but his native shrinking from the traits he 
doth surprise 
In his own kith — retarding quest of their society 
Or haunts — their conflicts or their friendships — 
aid or enterprise. 

A glance — by others unobserved: a frown, a curve, 
a bend; 
A voice — its modulation or inflection; simplest gait 
Or gesture; e'en a posture, or an attitude, will 
send — 
As if dairvoyantly — to his quick consciousness 
its fate. 

'Tis not a gift to prove its owner less than his poor 
kind 
A man, or more a god; nor is't a gift to make 
one proud, 
As evidence of higher faculty of soul or mind ; 
But 'tis a gift that may not be contemned, 
where'er endowed. 



ALTHAZARS GIFT. 2£ 

If 'tis a cheerful boon, Althazar never vauntingly 
Confesses it; for it hath made him strange and 
reticent 
When he would not seem so. Despite himself, it 
tauntingly 
Hath warned him, thus : " How guilty they ! 
This one, how innocent ! " 

" Gentle, the heart there masked by face of cold 
severity; 
"Loving and kind, that frugal pair so queru- 
lously plod; 
" Generous, he admonishing with such asperity; 
" Deep-stirred with faith, yon pleader who de- 
clines to sue your God. 

" Cruel and vain is that dispenser of sweet charity; 
"False, this unctuous wearer of the church's 
livery ; 
" Base and designing, yonder patriot — with rarity 

" Of eloquence, a franchise wins each word's 
delivery." 

In ev'ry human phase, Althazar's cleverness detects 
The outward indices of the real inwardness; true 
worth 
From shams and counterfeits discries; from visible 
effects 
The cause of men's perversion traces — ante- 
dating birth. 



.30 ALTHAZARS GIFT. 

Tho' his quick impress may debar man's fellowship, 
me thinks 
Althazar may have won a closer fellowship with 
God 
At all events, God's haunts are his — God's breath 
his bosom drinks, 
Expires, nor feels the privilege of chastisement 
a rod. 

He walks the solitary glen, the lonely wood and 
beach; 
He crosses desert plains, and climbs the deso- 
lated crest; 
The stars and systems, skies and clouds he scans; 
and he doth reach 
Nearest the truth, that underscores all things, 
and is the best — 

The truth, that bids us pity, when we judge — 
when we condemn, 
Forgive — to leave to God such vengeance as he 
wills — to plead 
Prom him no mercy not his own— small favor hope 
from them 
Bred to man's traits of treachery and greed. 



MEMORY'S CHOICE. 31 

MEMORY'S CHOICE. 



With memory of pleasure lost 

Affection barbs its arrow- — 
Admonishing the heavy cost 

Of joy life drapes with sorrow. 
Happy, they only, who have known 

No succor from the burden 
Chaining men to their lots, which groan 

With sweat — *of bliss the guerdon. 

For hope hath he of better fate — 

Not having known to prosper, 
Or having felt to speculate 

He must upon disaster; 
Whilst he who trembles lest, perchance, 

Success may not be lasting, 
Is ever quiv'ring 'neath the lance 

Prosperity is blasting. 

Remembrance, rescuing from the strife 

A sermon, gravely preaches : 
The only comfort plucked from life 

Unshamed reflection teaches. 
Not giddy pleasure's chronicle 

Is it man, happiest, views; 
Looking from heaven's pinnacle, 

Our virtuous deeds we choose. 



32 MUSINGS ; FROM A PHILOSOPHERS PORTFOLIO. 

MUSINGS; FROM A PHILOSOPHER'S 
PORTFOLIO, a. 



I 

How perfect, tow'rd the end, our knowledge of the 
cause, 
From which we've felt, unwarned, the bittering 

effect ! 
Tho' better late, than ne'er, we come to recollect 
And heed our intuitions- than all written laws 
More serious and just — since human retrospect 
Must, wise, concede that Destinies — unseen — 
direct; 
Else, why in hopeless paths advance, in hopeful 
pause ? 

H. 

If there live they who have not struggled 'gainst 
the wave 
Of Fate's decree, such here can never apprehend 

The blunders, crosses, sorrows Providence may 
send 

To change the heart misled, the mind from error 
save. 
For who, taught by life's checks and burdens, 

will contend 
That God, however chastening, does not intend 
A discipline, to each most needed, for the grave ? 



MUSINGS ; FROM A PHILOSOPHERS PORTFOLIO. 33 

ni. 

Long in the mists and shadows do we strive and 
grope 
To conquer obstacles not e'en the spheres can 

move; 
To justify opinions trial must approve, 
Until, our judgment yielding, we attain a hope 
That we may follow — since we cannot cut — a 

groove 
For our due journeying, upon ways far above 
The circumspect of man — beyond blurr'd mortal 
scope. 

IV. 

And when, at the declining stage, our past we 

view — 
Touching its errors, battles, mysteries, regrets, 
By score of impulse, passion, self-love — worldly 

frets, — 
Contrasted with what conscience ever weighed as 

true, 
Our being, actions, thoughts, desires should 

seem but debts, 
On life's short ledger balanced by the grand 



Of being privileged to be, to think, to strive, to 
bravely do. 



34 THE PUZZLE. 



THE PUZZLE. 



Pray, what is wrong ? And what is right ? 

If what our hearts impel 
Must oft be hid from human light 

Because the fates befel 
That like from like, by chance, should be — 

Through no device of ours — 
Diverged and crossed before frail we 

Could estimate our powers — 

Our powers or gifts — of thought, of love, 

Our strength to do, to check 
The motives, actions, aims that move 

This sphere — to joy or wreck 
Our destinies, and in the end 

Leave, yet unsolved, unkenn'd 
If our first choice or ways best tend 

Life's course to smooth or rend ? 



THE LAYS OF A BOHEMIAN. 35 



II. 



Then sweet emotions, tinged divine 

By heaven's chast'ning breath, 
Throb o'er the arbors that entwine 

Our hopes — in life and death, 
Yield blossoms that enchant and thrall, 

Waft perfumes that diffuse 
Love's subtle incense throughout all 

The harpings of the muse. 



A Poet's Introspect, {Page 18)- 



MY SHRINE. 37 



MY SHKINE. 



My shrine is at the feet of her 

From whom fire, tempest, flood in vain, 
Nor all the storms in space astir, 
. Can separate my soul — whose fane 
She pillars with her fay. 

My goddess — lithe as dreams disclose 
Or in the dome of heaven wings — 

More vivid on my image grows, 

Fresh rapture to my longing brings 
With ev'ry new-born day. 

Her features — than Madonna's none 
With charity more mildly light — 

Encourage hope I may atone 

For heedless act or wand'ring flight 

Ere blest by her kind sway. 

Her step — more graceful tripped no queen 

Of orient or fairy land, 
In visions famed by poet seen — 

I so adore I'd kiss the sand 

Where its soft glance would stay. 



38 MY SHRINE. 

Her eyes ! My God ! Thy spark divine 
Alone the mind's profounds may spring 

With power, by fate denied to mine, 
To faintly sound the hopes that cling 
To their exalting sway. 

Than form, or feature, motion, eye, 
More ravishing by far there gleam 

From her pure spirit thoughts so high 
Above earth's bounds, my life's a dream 
How best their wish obey. 

For ev'ry inspiration sweet 

Drawn from this sphere — by her made heav'n, 
So grateful I, no due seems meet 

Essayed in words. Love strength hath giv'n 
My heart to never stray 
From her — my soul to pray 
To none save her, alway. 



I HAVE BEEN LOVED. 39 



I HAVE BEEN LOVED. 



My garb is plain — 
Of fabric poor, and coarse, my well-worn coat — 

Glazed by the rain 
And sun, my cap, as idlers all may note — 

My shirt undressed 
By starch or gloss — by tie nor ruffle decked; 

Yet I am blessed 
With joy few hearts, 'neath royal robes, e'er 
recked — 

From faith, sublime : 
That I was loved, loved truly 
Once, aye, once 
Upon a time. 



My form, now bent, 
Was then erect as any forest tree; 

My breath, short spent, 
Then filled a chest exhaling cheerily 



40 I HAVE BEEN LOVED. 

Wild trills of mirth, 
Or chants of praise, or ballads melting love, 

Ere soared from earth 
The echo of my soul — the stars above — 
With song sublime : 
That I was loved, loved truly 
Once, aye, once 
Upon a time. 

Ne'er wail nor weep 
I — sad and lone ; for I would not exchange 

The furrows deep 
My features plow, the glist'ning hairs that range 

My locks, erst brown, 
Now thinned by grief and care, since proudest king 

Would barter crown 
To gain the peace of love — the joy I sing — 
The faith sublime : 
That I was loved, loved truly 
Once, aye, once 
Upon a time. 

I labor now — 
I labored then; but she was at my side, 

And on her brow, 
And in her eyes my hope could then abide 



I HAVE BEEN LOVED. 41 

By signs that gave 
Encouragement, by smiles that brought repose; 

Yet I am brave, 
(For destiny — not we — our fortunes chose,) 
» Through faith sublime : 
That I was loved, loved truly 
Once, aye, once 
Upon a time. 

I sometimes long — 
But, wherefore ? — since, when toiling, mine the gift 

Of sweetest song 
Ere muses breathed, or minstrel harped, to lift 

Man's soul beyond 
The chains that bind it here, as in a vice, 

To grim despond, 
The gift of knowing all that's worth the price 
Of Earth's few score — 
The truth sublime : 
That I was loved, loved truly 
Once, aye, once 
Upon a time — 
Hence, evermore. 



42 LOVE. 



LOVE. 



Fate's labor vain to rear a wall 

'Twixt loves divine, 

Or crush the shrine 
Whereon twain souls have found their thrall. 



Paths may diverge like hearts afar — 

Their hopes yet near; 

For cloud nor bier 
Can from true love obscure its star. 



It haunts the busy work-day hour, 

The bed of dreams, 

First matin's beams, 
The calm amid which vespers low'r. 

Wild ocean billows may career, 

Or deserts burn 

Between, yet turn 
No eddies to awaken fear: 



LOVE. 43 



Since ever found, close-hovering 
With love, bright gleams 
From purest streams 

That spring the cold earth's covering- 



Gleams that, once mirrored, cannot fade- 
Their gift : To live- 
Sweet light to give 

The soul — when all beside in shade. 



44 LOVE'S PSYCHOLOGY. 



LOVE'S PSYCHOLOGY. 



Love whispers its sweet messages 

Above the storms of life 
So tranquilly, no presages 

Can rouse a dread of strife. 

No warning doth it ever heed — 

So blind affinity; — 
It recks ne'er space, nor time, nor speed — 

Its bounds infinity. 

It fears no danger, sees no cloud — 

Its happy fate to be 
So self-absorbed, no clamor loud 

Can break its ecstacy. 

One only language doth it know — 

Not spoken by the lip; 
One only sign need it e'er show — 

And oft'nest that by slip — 

Through tell-tale eyes, to prove their deeps 

Reflect a wakened soul — 
Whence to its mate God's emblem leaps, 

Two hearts to mold one whole. 



LOVE'S RESPONSE. 45 



LOVE'S EESPONSE. 



Love ne'er denies — it gives, 
And asking, giveth more — 

Since love, by yielding, lives, 
Keceiving, adds its store. 

Love feeds upon the kiss 
That thrills its counterpart, 

And finds its home, its bliss 
Its mate's afimite heart. 

It craves its own caress 
While seeming to accede, 

And hath the gift to bless 
When most the pow'r to lead. 

Unsought, Love's answer : " Use ! " 
Its only thought, to give — 

Its song, eternal muse : 

" For thee, my peace to live ! " 

Love ne'er can love refuse — 

Responding : " Aye, for aye ! " — 

Its chant, eternal muse : 

" For thee, my balm to die ! " 



46 THE MISSING NOTES. 



THE MISSING NOTES. 



Melodiously through the air — 

From harp, and violin, and flute — 

Float strains so pure that pain and care 
Should seem exiled, and sorrow mute. 

Anthems they play — from Mozart muse — 

Aspiring harmonies so sweet, 
The mind, entranced, might well refuse 

Life's irksome wail again to meet. 

Oh! Symphonies sublime, that breathe — 
So far raised o'er this world's travail, 

With smiles ye might the angels wreathe — 
Why is't for me your splendors fail ? 

A key, alas ! is wanting here — 
The nightingale cannot restore. 

The tend'rest notes reach not my ear, 
Nor on earth will they evermore. 

More thrilling than motet divine — 
How happy, could I hear her voice ! 

'Twill not descend from heaven's shrine 
Save my freed soul to raise — rejoice. 



OUR TRYST. 47 



OUR TRYST. 



Can'st tell me what is here 
To cause my nerves vibrate, 

And make— as I draw near — 
My heart so palpitate ? 

Would'st say, the linden tree — 
On which are fixed my eyes ? 

Quite like — since thou know'st me 
All nature's boons to prize. 

Nay ! — Then dost think the bench, 
That in its shade holds place, 

My normal veins could blench, 
And pallid hue my face ? 

Nor would'st believe the brook — 
Cool- winding just below 

The terrace, whence we look — 
Might make me tremble so ? 

Nor yet, the nonce, suppose 
God's clear, calm sky, above 

This refuge for repose, 

Could my whole being move ? 



48 OUR TRYST. 

Ah ! Love hath never, then, 
Thy wretched heart inspired ; 

Or quickly should'st thou ken 
By what my soul is fired ! 

Wherever lingered we, 

In those delightful days 
Of passion's infancy, 

Showered heav'n its brightest rays. 

First love's geography — 

Than your whole world's — hath made 
More legible to me 

Yon copse, and tree, and shade ! 

The azure realms that crown 

These sheltering branches, green — 

The hillside sloping down 

To yonder spring-bed's gleen — 

The seat — where once reclined 
Her form I worshiped more 

Than e'er it was divined 
Man had the pow'r before — 

Her eyes — that ruled my soul 
By glances, which no muse 

Can e'er presume extol — 
My mem'ry will not lose ! 



OUR TRYST. 49 

So long as sense may 'queathe 

Me privilege to keep 
An image, whilst I breathe, 

This site's engraven deep. 

Oh ! Can our tryst — hallowed 
By love's first pledge, embrace — 

By Thee, God, be allowed 
Eternity t'efface ! 



50 TOO LATE. 



TOO LATE. 



His heart denied, love's token sweet refused 
She mourneth now as heaven's gift abused, 
And in her memory e'er will linger green 
Her last wish, still her wish, as parting — seen 
His pleasure in her will, 
His wish to woo her still, 

When her small hands by others tender pressed, 
And her soft lips by other lips caressed, 
His actions true, and words, with fond regret, 
She'll aye recall, as well her wish that yet 
His pleasure was her will, 
His wish to woo her still. 

" Oh ! Dearie, how I wish I'd kissed you now ! " — 
Her last low plaint, her pray'r, she'll wish were vow 
To love, kiss, fondle — long as breath could keep 
Her heart alive, that now doth silent weep 

What might have been her will, 
His riefht to woo her still. 



OF WHAT AVAIL ! 51 

OF WHAT AVAIL! 



I. 

'Neath clear spring skies I stroll the turf's rich green. 
And list' the merry warblers that careen 
Above its velvet, and the ripe'ning hedge 
That fringes, to the water's edge — 
Of what avail I 

II. 

I linger o'er the streamlet's silver sheen, 
Its tinted-pebble bed, and depths unseen; 
Pursue its course along the hillock's base, 
Where vines and boughs, depending, interlace— 
Of what avail ! 

in. 

I climb broad slopes, and rugged cliffs ascend; 
Survey grand vistas which the heavens blend — 
Enclosing valleys rich with herds and crops, 
Encircling mountains crowned with frosted tops — 
Of what avail ! 

IV. 

I thread the mazes of the lonely wood; 
Eecline on banks of moss; in dreamy mood, 
Evoke weird spirits from the dank ravine 
That the wild forest-shadow falls between — 
Of what avail ! 



52 OF WHAT AVAIL! 



V. 



Of what avail ? Ah ! It availeth not 

That God hath made his ev'ry work divine ; 
How e'er sublime the thought, or grand the spot — 
Since all of rapture in my heart doth fail, 
Save when I have the joy of echoing thine, 
My love ! My love ! — 
Of what avail ! 



TO FLORA. 53 

TO FLOBA 

(of the demi-monde.) 



Pretty blossom whilst thou bide, 

All the stronger could'st endear 
Hearts, if would'st thy petals hide 

From false lights, nor disappear 
Altogether from the world — 

Only nestle in the shade, 
Where thy leaves — by love unfurl' d, 

Sweet hope moist'ning — ne'er would fade. 

Little Flora, tint thy bloom, 

Ere it perish, with love's hue, 
For when wither'd, sear the doom 

Meted out to flow'rs like you — 
Nipt by frosts before the sun 

Nature's glow life's buds can fill. — 
Flora, list'! The seasons run; 

Few the days are left thee still. 



54 MY SPRING IS HERE. 



MY SPUING IS HERE. b. 



If the snow be piled in drifts, 
Still my violets sweetly bloom; 
Tho' the whistling wind sweeps chill, 
Yet my blue-bird gaily chants. 

For the violet — that lifts 

Its bright petals from the gloom 

Of bleak March, my heart to thrill — 

Clara's glance, englowing, haunts. 

And the bird, whose warbling rifts 
Through white flakes — that weave their loom 
'Mid the blinding gusts which fill 
Clouded sky — chirps Clara's taunts. 



LOVE HATH NO BOURNE. 55 



LOVE HATH NO BOURNE. 



" Why sleep you, in the gloaming, here ? " 
I spake, and gently grasped 
The stranger's hand, while clasped 

Its mate the stone he slumbered near. 

With dazed look, upraised, he sighed; — 
Then marked he my grave tone — 
My eyes, that plainly shone 

Mute pity's glint — and low replied: 



I waken from a holy trance 

You blindly mis-name sleep — 

Not known may tearless weep 
My heart the pall that shrouds her glance — 

Her glance ,that glows, through light or shade, 

In deep-graved semblances 

From sweet remembrances 
By love bestowed, ne'er doom'd to fade — 

Feeling my erstwise void — the past, 

With its foretaste of peace, 

Assuring care's release 
Through love, shall be renewed at last; — 



56 LOVE HATH NO BOURNE. 

That altho' sundered we — by fate, 

Love hath merged heart and will, 
Once loving, love we still, 

And love's elysium, trustful, wait; — 

Knowing her spirit bound with mine 
By loyal love's soft ties, 
"Whose Jove-like strength defies 

Creation's pow'r to undermine ! 



ALTHAZAR'S WOOING. 57 

ALTHAZAR'S WOOING. 

(a love letter.) 



My darling little girl: 'Twas kind in thee to praise 
My meagre lines; but of my thoughts, poor, 
weak the offspring 
Seem in cold, set speech. Fancy's flight shall 
vainly raise 
The muses; not the nine combined have force to 
sing 
How deeply I adore, love, worship thee ! 

Jehovah's fire divine might human wit inspire 
With language consonant my reveries to show, 

My dreams with coloring appropriate attire — 
My waking, sleeping visions, all are so aglow 
With beatific images of thee ! 

No mortal gift can e'er portray the ecstacy, 

Surprise, compassion, hope by which I was 
confused 
When thy soft eyes bequeathed to mine the legacy 
Of their first glance — a glance that fain would 
have refused 
Response; — tho' naught have my eyes since 
beheld save thee ! 



58 ALTHAZARS WOOING. 

In that grave moment, when from thy proud brow 
I pushed 
The tresses back — tearing the mask from thy 
false life, 
Showing how tenderness was . numbed, how hopes 
were crushed, 
"Where both should bloom and nourish — when 
in thee at strife 
Justice and truth I saw, how my heart bled 
for thee ! 

And when in my sad tale of thine the counterpart 
Was found, it is our secret sweet how pity 
nourished 
Sympathy, till in every fibre of my heart 

One sentiment had weight to thrill, one form was 
cherished ! — 
Can'st ever doubt if then my soul was nearest 
thee? 

It was not left to question, after that sweet hour 
I caught a shadow from thy lattice backward 
shrink, 
If insecure to meet my glance had fall'n thy 
power; — * 

Thence mine has been whatever pleasure man 
may drink 
Of this world's springs. — Words vainly speak 
my love for thee ! 



ALTBAZAR'S WOOING. 59 

Nor ever can coined phrases echo from one heart 

Unto another, which affinity hath bound 
Tpgether with its web supreme — nor can pen 

impart — 
The glories love hath conquered, hopes that trust 
hath* found. — 
Profane the hand wouid dare describe my love 
for thee ! 



60 FATAL HUE. 



FATAL HUE. 



I. 

In my brief cycle, eyes of mellow brown 

Are deep-haloed — by Fate's kind will, the charm, 
Through memory, deigned my earth. — Looking far 
down, 
Beyond the vistas, whence my mother's arm 
Again encircles me — no thought beside 

Recalled, my soul is pierced — tho' graves be- 
tween — 
By glances beaming love, at flooding tide, 

From orbs of richest brown — gleaming with ser- 
aph's sheen. 

n. 

And so, alway, have eyes of brown6d hue 

My spirit moved with quickest, tendrest thrills. — 
A dulcet vision now enwafts to view 

A shade celestial — that with rev'rie fills 
My heart — begemmed with stars of brown, that 
caught 

The tinder-leaves of love, in hope's wild years — 
My cadences of youth's first passion taught ; — 

I ever see them — as we parted — bathed in tears. 



FATAL HUE. 61 



in. 



Anon there came a fair maid — later, wife, 

The mother of my children — faithful, fond, 
Tend'ring to me, as pledge of love, her life 

By her best lights, retaining me in bond 
Not by my penance, or yet by her care — 

Reflex e'er found in umbered suns that seek 
My will, but by four other eyes — two pair 

Of magnet brown — that unto father's, pleading, 
speak. 

IV. 

And at the last, I've won my soul's franchise — 
Reposed 'neath deeps of brown that mirrored 
first 
Affinity's rare realms, the paradise 

Where hearts are soothed — their chords yet kept 
athirst 
For love — love only — love that always lives — 

Love that creates, consumes, yet never tires — 
A well that craves for more, while most it gives — 
Love, grand, supreme — unequal-hymned by 
countless lyres ! 



62 THAT PORTRAIT, WHOSE? 



THAT PORTRAIT, WHOSE? 



That portrait, whose ? you ask ? — Faint image of a 
dream 

Of long ago, 
My only dream that e'er brought peace, and made 
life seem 

A sweet echo 
Of love— 
Of Heaven — 



The one dim reflex left to me of pleasures past — 

The clouds to chase 
From mem'ry's realms, or mirror — from beyond the 
last 

Bounds of my race — 
Of love— 
Of Heaven. 



LOVE ALONE CAN SAVE THE HEART. C 63 
LOVE ALONE CAN SAVE THE HEAET. 

A SONG. 



I wander, oft, with merry guests, o'er landscape- 
gardened grounds, 
'Cross emerald lawns, through umbrage close, 
adown sequestered ways — 

By bower and fountain, lake and rill, and yet, in all 
my rounds, 
Find no delight from broad domain, no balm 
from others' praise 

Of that which charms external sense, while touch- 
ing not the heart. 

II. 

Tis true that many here might dwell, and happily 
endure 
What to my sight is but the yield of taste, with 
gold allied, 
That many might their lives enjoy 'mid scenes that 
me assure 
How often — to the real fate — the ideal is denied; 
For seeming by possessions blest, still void may be 
the heart. 



64 LOVE ALONE CAN SAVE THE HEART. 

m. 

In noble aspirations crossed, in pure affections 
chilled, 
Checked by mistakes too late to mend, by 
wounds too late to heal, 
Whose sentiment, by charms of nature, or of art, 
is thrilled ! — 
So long as memory survives, or instinct lasts, we 
feel 
The only joys that give content are those of a lov- 
ing heart. 

IV. 

Kiches are dross, all pastime's dull, philosophy's a 
snare 
To him whose breast finds no response, whose 
thought no echo brings, 
Since all the garnish of our strife, in this bleak 
world of care, 
Is brief and passing as the wind ; the only wealth 
that clings 
Eternally unto the soul is that of a loving heart. 

V. 

Then take, oh ! take my worldly goods and wares, 
my grand estates, 
Fame, fortune, all man covets in his envy and his 
pride, 



LOVE ALONE CAN SAVE THE HEART. 65 

And give me but a loyal heart, a mind, a soul that 

mates 
My own, in sweet affinity, in every sense my 

bride, 
Her creed: Love is immortal — love alone can save 

the heart! 



66 FRANCESCA'S REVERIE. 



FRANCESCA'S REVERIE. 



Love him ! why should I not love, idolize, adore 
The man who first with interest did condescend 
Inquire my wretched tale, a pitying ear did lend, 

Bade hope I might myself unto myself restore ? 

Love him ! worship were far more merited and true 
A w r ord by which express the sentiment — too 

deep 
For circumscription to the narrow bounds that 
keep 
My poor heart powerless to herald his just due. 

Not my weak prayers for him presume implore 
From God the recompense deserved to manly 

deeds; 
His charity of soul and faith obscure the needs 
Of prayer, than which they of themselves assure 
far more. 

Then why thus smoulder, in my heart of hearts, 
the fire 
That burns to flash before the world my love's 
incense ! 



FRANCESCA'S REVERIE. 67 

Or why not rest my head, proud, on his bosom — 
whence 
Ne'er beats a pulse that would not for my sake ex- 
pire ! 

Alas ! was it recorded, for a purpose wise, 
That destiny should pitilessly interpose, 
To haunt my horoscope, a shadow 'till life's 
close ? 
Then quickly perish all, save love ! That never 
dies. 

For him my fealty deep, eternal as the skies ! 
As infinite my faith — resigning me to live 
Here, in the one sweet hope his love, his trust 
doth give : 

Our compensations God anon must equalize. 



ALTHAZARS MUSE. 

ALTHAZAR'S MUSE. 

(a reverie.) 



My best was tombed 

Upon thy bier, 

When fell the tear 
My fate that gloomed, 

My Love. 

Yet have I wreathed 

A single gem, 

Your diadem 
It shall adorn, 

My Love ! 

For you first breathed 

Into my heart 

The vivid dart 
From which was born 

My Love — 

My life's true leaven — 

All e'er was worth 

My stay on earth, 
My hope of heaven, 

My Love ! 



ALTHAZARS MUSE. 69 

Whatever food 

My thoughts may grow 

My God doth owe 
Thy pow'r for good, 

My Love! 

Hence, bloom or fade, 

My mind's estate 

I dedicate • 

To thy dear shade, 

My Love — 

For tribute mine — 

Soul's glimpse, and heart's 

My muse imparts — 
To build our Shrine, 

My Love! 



70 LOVE'S GREETING. 

LOVE'S GREETING. 



A perfume, as from spirit land, 

Wafts nigh; — 
A gentle pressure meets my hand ; — 

A sigh 
Breaks; — and a face dawns — rose-hued deep;- 

Whilst eye 
So searching gleams, my pulses leap 

And fly. 

A form seraphic circles mine 

With bliss 
So pure, the current seems divine; — 

A kiss — 
Diviner — links with her's my soul. — 

Amiss 
The thought, for either, other goal 

Than this ! 

Behold the tokens nightly brings 

Sweet love 
To me, with hope that brightly sings 

Above 
My worldly cares — mid' dreams 

That move 
So peacefully — with life heav'n seems 

En wove. 



A THRILL. 71 



A THRILL. 



Why do yon flute's vibrations sweet 

Thus melt my soul to tears ? 
Alas ! Bright hours they bid me greet — 

Adown the vale of years. 

They waft to me so soft and low 

Her fav'rite airs, I bide 
Near wont familiar hearthstone's glow — 

Fair Anna by my side. 

They vivify my dream of love — 
Tho' ne'er love's mem'ry lost — 

Call back love's looks, ways, tones, to move 
Me now, in life's hoar frost. 



72 MY SANCTUM. 



MY SANCTUM, c. 



High-crested o'er a pretty square — 
Rich-foliaged deep-green — as fair 

As nature's own; 
Ought I not feel — so' grand the perch — 
My visions spread therefrom in search 

Of faerie throne ? 

Aye, when the sun beams on the trees, 
Their boughs sway'd gently by the breeze 

Of balmy June, 

As 'neath their shade yon fountain plays 

In rhythm resembling minstrel lays 

Its cadent tune; 

While all w T ithin speaks taste and art 

My hive array'd, in every part, 

With chaste design; 
Its sides with dainty pictures hung — 
Some rare, suggestive works among, 

You may opine. 

No doubt 'tis dear the reader deems 
My attic-parlor, and the dreams 
With which endow'd — 



MY SANCTUM. 73 

Its desk and cabinet, choice books 
And prints, its casement that o'erlooks 
The humming crowd. 

Not always dear — but desolate 
My sanctum, myself isolate, 

When she not here. 
Dull, drear and sombre seem my walls, 
Dim, pall'd my gaze, where'er it falls, 

Till she appear. 



74 ALAS, DEAR WIFE OF MY SOUL! 



ALAS, DEAR WIFE OF MY SOUL! 



Never a Nay answer'd she, 

So long as she lived, to me; 

Never a scowl or a frown, 

When most by sad cares weighed down; 

For me quick thought and kind cheer — 

A kiss, tho' all the world near; 

Tender of speech as a dove — 

She lived, helpmeet, for my love. 

Alas, dear wife of my soul, 
If there be heaven, my goal ! 

Always a smile or a tear — 

As I would be cheered or moved; 
Never a tremor of fear 

To grieve the heart hers so loved; 
Never a pain or an ache 

Wailed she — ere sympathy knew; 
Her aim and work, for my sake, 

To live, to suffer, to do. 

Alas, dear wife of my soul, 
If there be heaven, my goal ! 

I feel that she's waiting me now, 
If souls hereafter survive ; 



ALAS, DEAR WIFE OF MY SOUL! 75- 

Waiting and watching I trow, 

Her soul for mine — yclept alive 
(The wherefore, or why, or how 

To God alone known) to strive, 
With patience, my fate to bow 
Tilljoy'dmy summons arrive — 

To join the wife of my soul 
In our lives' ultimate goal. 



76 LOVE'S BARD. 

LOVES BARD. 



Spontaneously springs the song 

Of love from poet's soul. 
Soft glide the strings his lyre along 

Resj)onsive strains that dole 
To human ears the glint divine 

Of chords the heavens sway 
From symphonies the muses nine 

Alone may harp alway. 

No clod, of plain, prosaic mold 

E'er on the lyre essay'd 
Love's measure strike, or moods unfold 

By stanzas interlaid 
With scintilating gems apt- rhymed — 

But seraphs quick discerned 
His metre counterfeit, ill-timed 

His fire, his verse ill -turned. 

The soul of bard doth throb and bound 

"With sympathy so keen, 
No grim disguise can dull the sound 

His couplets bright careen, 
Or hide the sparks his thoughts that flame 

With pow'r to move the heart 
As nothing can beside — no name, 

No skill, no drosser part. 



WE MUST LIVE AGAIN. 77 



WE MUST LIVE AGAIN. 



Why have we hoped, my love, so long and vain, 

Ourselves to understand, 

Since both our souls demand — 
As a condition — we wust live again ? 

Elaine ! Unanswered we shall ever plead 

For mercy to enjoy 

Love born without aloy, 
Or confidence no shaft can rudely bleed. 

Wrecked are our hearts — that should beat one, 
and rent 

Our lives — by force of fate, 

Because we did not wait, 
With patience, for the signs which mark content. 

Eegrets o'erhang our past, and shadows cross 

Our paths, to make obscure 

The truths we might endure 
If they could compensate us for our loss. 

Why dream, alas ! of compensation here ? 

Apart we farther drift, 

No hope our hearts to lift 

Until the welcome shrift — 
Annihilation, or a Brighter Sphere. 



78 OUR HOLIDAY. 

OUR HOLIDAY. 



Why seem, to-day, the skies so bright and clear, 

The flow'rs so fragrant, and the meads so green, 
The groves so full of peace, the atmosphere 
So musical with bird-notes, and the sheen 
Yon lake reflects so heav'nly ? — Ah ! A face 
Gleams with the glance its heart bespoke, sweet 
Grace, 

When you wish'd me a happy holiday. 

And as I walk the woods, stroll pastures fresh, 

The wavelets skim, or thread the golden grain, 
I almost feel you with me, in the flesh — 
So treasure I your wish, so gently rain 
Your eyes sincere the dew, as your lips trace 
The truth with which they give the thought, 
sweet Grace, 

For my enjoyment of this holiday. 

I hope this day, my little friend, may bring 
To you delights to banish ev'ry care ! 

Be you as cheerful now, as I, since sing 
All sounds one melody, and everywhere 

I pause or turn, your eyes, your voice, sweet Grace, 

In my poor heart o'er nature's charms keep pace. — 
For you, as me, be this true holiday ! 



CONFECTION. 79 

CONFECTION. 

(an album l eaf ) 



Thy charms, my lexicon's grand store 

Of sweets, vain laboring 
To pen ! — Thou Jujube — nectar'd o'er 

With angel's flavoring ! — 
Thou Mallow white, from faery-shore, 

Of heaven savoring ! — 
Choice Marron glace — of the rare 

Thy small hands favoring ! 
Truce, Madeline ! for thou so fair, 

My song I'd braver sing 
If fate were kind ! — Oh ! why not dare 

For thee to graver ring 
The chimes my heart now guards with care ? 

Because true Peace I'd bring! 



80 IN MEMORIAM. 



IN MEMORIAM. d 



Chaste flower, 

No power 
Could change thy fate — 

Thy dower, 

The hour 
Should not be late 

For parting. 

Indeed, 

Decreed 
From birth — thy death 

Should speed; 

The seed 
In thy first breath 
Of parting. 

Not less 

We bless, 
With sorrow deep — 

The few 

That knew 
Thy worth, and weep 
Thy parting. 



IN MEMORIAM. 81 

Thy meed: 
Kind deed, 
And gentle word, 
Truth, love — 
Above 
Divinely heard 

Since parting. 

Friends lave 

Thy grave, 
Sweet Alice Eakl, 

With tears, 

Tho' cheers 
The thought they pearl — 
Since parting — 

A brow 

That now 
God's chaplet wears, 

Nor fades, 

Nor shades 
With earth's sad cares 
Of parting. 



15, 1884. 



82 A LOVER'S HYMNAL. 



A LOVER'S HYMNAL. 



An angel's visit I await, 

Yet feel my angel knows 
So well my thoughts, from dawn till late, 

She'll look — in verse or prose — 

For one short pray'r from me. 

And I will make it love's sweet pray'r: 

God fill my darling's heart 
With peace; and teach — no matter where- 

She'll find its tend 'rest part 
Abiding, true, in me. 



THE LAYS OF A BOHEMIAN. 83 



III. 



Next, brief conceits the mind invade 

And capture to express 
Trite theories, or theses staid, 

Or clamors for redress 
Of wrongs and errors by the plane 

Of worldly squares and rules, 
Not heeding how diseased the grain 

Of sense in human fools. 



A Poets Introspect, (Page i%). 



ALTHAZARS MISSION. 85 



ALTHAZAK'S MISSION. 



Althazar fell, lang syne, upon a lurid haunt — 
Of sinister repute. It was his venture first; the 

last 
In his life's span, save the like end to serve, God 

grant ! 

II. 

For he met there a stray'd child — 'dowed with 

timid grace; 
Of mien, rarely so pensive — in lovlier mold, none 

cast. — 
Strangely, wrongly, utterly seemed she out of 

place ! 

in. 

He looked into her weary, melancholy eyes, 

To penetrate the mystery environing her past; 
And from their depths surged one of nature's lies ! 



ALTHAZARS MISSION. 



IV. 



My token you, wise-reading, understand, or should, 
To phrase the obstacles — so vast — cold destiny 
hath flung 
Before the will and effort to do ever good — 



The sad impossibility events, stern, raise — 

Except, mayhap, for those by fortune favor'd to 
die young — 

Of following paths prescribed, in so-termed right- 
eous ways. 

V. 

How false did seem all cant, how chill philosophy, 
Viewing the fate of this poor waif Althazar found 

among 
The shadows, where she linger'd — lacking strength 

to fly! 



" By what mischance of Justice came you here ! " 

he had 
Nigh falter'd; but the words, reproachful, broke 

upon his tongue — 
It seem'd so harsh in him to rank her with the bad. 



ALTHAZAR'S MISSION. 87 



VI. 



The while he mutely gazed, so crossed her lot ap- 
peared, 
So counter- vailed her thoughts — as if, amid de- 
spair, they clung 

Yet to a hope, his soul with pity was new-reared. 

Revived sprang dearest images of his own youth 
To life again, as on Althazar's lips the question 
hung 
That feared to shake his tott'ring citadel of Truth. 

vn. 

A mask her brow might wear; he, ne'ertheless, 

would save; 
He dared not judge; to plead, admonish, move, 

he dream'd not how; 
He simply realized a wish for strength tradition 

gave 

Jove's mythic preachers, of the fabled days of 

yore — 
A wish for charity of patience, wisdom, power, 

now 
To lift a wreck'd craft o'er the quicksands — nothing 

more. 



88 ALTHAZARS MISSION. 

vm. 

A radiant face — that, years agone, was wont to 

bend 
Tow'rd his, ere sombre death had robbed his 

world of its one saint, 
His mother's — from the skies did tearfully descend, 

As if in answer to a pray'r. And group'd hers 
round 
His sisters' smiles, encouraging. Hallow'd mem- 
ories — faint 

Before — arose so vivid, confidence was found, 

And a vague trust — urging his soul, with sudden 

force, 
To purposes divine — yielding him introspect to 

paint 
Of fate's capricious ends the causes in life's course. 

IX. 

Then to Althazar woke the voice just hopes inspire; 
And soe'er brief the interlude between first 
thought and speech, 
In calmly whispered words, he breathed a sacred 
fire — 



ALTHAZARS MISSION. 89 

Not of stage or forum, of altar or of field, 

But of a soul yearning, with noble sympathy, to 

reach 
Those silent chords, in ev'ry creature kin, that 

yield, 

When touched, unto the right — making seem false 
and gross, 
Delusive, desolating, God-forsaking, mad, im- 
pure, 

All ways, things, circumstances, born of passion's 
dross — 

Eaising from the mist of dulled faith and wrong 

pride, 
Above the horizon, into heaven's undimmed 

azure, 
The knowledge that on safe paths chance may 

bring a guide. 



Althazar won, by sympathy's warm eloquence, 
That hour, a soul from chains and fetters it 
would hence abjure, 
Miscast — not by its will, but by its confidence 



90 ALTHAZARS MISSION. 

In seeming good, that here gives Hell its influence 
To lead unwary steps on roads and by-ways ren- 
dered sure 
By one guide only — bought with age — Experience. 

XI. 

To dim remembrance since, in vain the years have 
rolled; 
The lustre of that hour — as a Mission — will en- 
dure, 

Pleading Althazar's grace, when his life's knell is 
tolled 



BROOK NO KING. 91 



BKOOK NO KING. 



Space and time's omniscient Seer 
Man denies the gifts mature 
To the worth, my sons, doth meed 
Right divine to king o'er you. 

Wind and mind, both balm and blear, 
Sweep beneath the sky's azure — 
Changing if in pow'r and speed — 
"Yielding no man more than you. 

Aye! All breathe one atmosphere; 
All, by mold, of like nature. — 
Cancerous the womb would breed 
Caste or class to king o'er you ! 

What tho' some call life career ? 
Others deem we fate endure. — 
Neither sanctions king or creed 
Sporting fate, my sons, or you. 

Lies tradition holding dear 

Tyrant, or his record pure ! 

Trusts, e'er spurn'd by him, should lead 

You to brook no king of you. 



92 BROOK NO KING. 

Crowns, nor crests, nor sceptres here 
All the symbols slaves insure. — 
Kead this truth— its warning heed: 
Gold would starve — to king o'er you ! 

Cassocks dynasties may rear, 

Sects evoking to assure 

Bondage— spawn' d of fears and greed.- 

Bigotry would king o'er you ! 

Question you what course to steer — 
Apt your lot to best secure — 
Shunning king-craft's shoal and weed ? 
List', my sons, I'll answer you : 



Ask no favor ! Feel no fear ! 
Of yourselves seek to be sure— 
Never vaunting, but by deed 
Proving no man king of you ! 

Counsel with your soul ! The sneer 
Of pride contemn ! Be cynosure 
Of your own right aim — the need 
No king can supply to you ! 



BROOK NO KING. 

Crown content ! Mold heart! Spread cheer ! 

If you would the crosses cure 

Of experience, and feed 

By the hands no king gave you. 

Anchor faith on no one's bier 
Save your own! Let no charm lure 
Your leal to the toils that knead 
Servitude and king for you ! 

Cringe not ! Bend not ! You are peer 
Of the czar, whom dreads now 'mure 
'Neath the shadows, to which speed 
Princes all who'd king o'er you ! 

When to thrones the 'larum drear 
Breaks, anon, so all may hear: 
God is Freedom ! — Far and near 
Hue the tocsin ! Loud and clear 
Bing the chimes, with blood imbure ! 
Strip, and burn the garniture 
Masking worldly crowns ! The seed 
Kill of sires who'd king o'er you ! 



94: MY REVERENCE. 



MT REVERENCE. 



Let other mortals dwell in awe of the unknown; 
Or fawning, cringe — with timid nerve — to tinsel'd 

throne, 
To dynasty, to chief, to him with whom they hire; 
Or homage pay to leader, master, patron, sire; — 
So they yield me the choice, which my soul doth 

incline — 
"With rev'rence deep — tow'rd forms wherein I can 

divine 
A spirit gentler, purer, nobler, grander far 
Than all the venerated I have mentioned are. 



If mov'd by cant, or by cold prudence urged, the 

power 
Behind whose mystic sway the superstitious cower 
I might reserve; but I cannot my pen with awe 
Infuse for terrors I ne'er dreamed, or dangers saw. 
As for the panoplied, of human sort— tho' clad 
In purple — sceptred, or by custom's quest, as sad — 



MY REVERENCE. 95 

"With plume encrest', in surplice robed, or mitre 

cased, 
If I once felt an awe for either, 'tis effaced. 



Infer not ev'ry form and phase I under-rate — 
I neither sentiment nor feeling venerate; 
The godly I have oft 'nest found in simple guise, 
In untrained thought ideas might put to blush the 

wise. — 
In little children — open-eyed, all innocence, 
Heeding impressions first, of no experience, 
Save that derived from nature's view, sound and 

contact — 
I see far more to awe than man's maturest act. 



My eyes shall never look on aught more beautiful — 
Endowing me with sense of what is dutiful 
So perfectly, so reverently that I grieve 
To think of the small strifes which, bitter, inter- 
weave 
Our work-day destinies, from cradle to the tomb — 
Than tender nurseling, gentle-lisping child, in 
whom 



96 MY REVERENCE. 



Perception of deceit, remotest glimpse of wrong 
Have not yet germed to taint the good — new-born 
and strong. 



For such how deep my pity, how great my concern ! 
So much they have to unlearn, not the less to learn, 
Of ways and things so vastly unlike what they 

seem — 
Perverting instincts, hopes — impelling them to 

deem 
The crooked path unto contentment they can climb 
Only by flatt'ry, falsehood, treachery and crime, — 

That ALL MY REVERENCE AND AWE I FEEL I OWE 
To THE CONDITION DOTH PURE TRUTH, SWEET MERCY 
SHOW. 



NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 97 



NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 



Equipp'd is he in redingote, 

In sportsman's cap and gear — 
As prancing on his steed, with proat 

He spurs her flanks, while near 
Him, mid' the hounds, there gayly ride — 

All deck'd in bright attire — 
His retinue, on ev'ry side, 

Whose whips and horns aspire : 

Noblesse oblige. 

He moves, at his attorney's wand, 

And dips his pen to sign 
Of his broad acres, mansion grand, 

A mortgage to the Jew 
Who holds, in virtue, all the fee 

An auction sale would show; 
But then " Milord " his friends with glee 

Must feast — his rank sustain. 

Noblesse oblige. 

Carouse he must, and yacht, and game, 

And give his heir her dot; 
His sire and grandsire did the same — 

So will his scions do, 



98 NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 

If anything to pledge remains 

Of lands or jewels rare, 
To keep the style blue blood maintains 

When 'twould attest its brand. 

Noblesse oblige. 

The ball, the race, the hunt they lead, 

The round of folly run; 

Of fox bereft, chase aniseed — 
Their kennel and their stud 

To keep in practice for their guests, 
'Till health and energy, 

And fortune, mock'd, to time's behests 
Succumb — t' attest their brand. 

. Noblesse oblige. 



She droops beneath the rafters low 

And plies her slaving trade — 
With stitch and seam, while idly flow 

The streams of wealth that ride, 
Her casement viewing, to the park — 

To catch the ev'ning breeze ; — 
Yet toils she onward 'till the dark 

Enshrouds her — heeding not 

Noblesse oblige. 



NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 99 

He wields a chisel and a plane, 

Or deftly points a wall, 
Or shoulders hod, nor doth disdain 

The plainest raiment wear; — 
"When freed from work, his hearth beside, 

A sire — at frugal board — 
He rules six waifs his counsels guide — 

No thought of mark or brand. — 
Noblesse oblige. 

"With sturdy arm, he steers the plow 

And plants the fruitful grain; 
He grasps the helm, and moves the prow 

That braves the rocking main; 
He weaves the texture of your coat, 

Nor scorneth his hard hand 
To do whate'er men list or note 

Attesting labor's brand. — 

Noblesse oblige. 

He delves and mines, and from the mill 

Of nature plucks and grinds 
The rare inventions human skill 

In this quick age hath wrought 
To make the lights of other days 

Seem lustreless and dim, 



100 NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 

The page of history blank, the lays 
Of minstrel crack'd, when sung 

Noblesse oblige. 



Ah ! Which the real Noblesse oblige 

That men should recognize — 
To which the heart should pay its liege — 

That we should highest prize ? 
Are they the noblest idly eat 

The grist from labor's strand, 
Their lives mis-spent, themselves to cheat 

With clam'ring:" Our's the brand — 
Noblesse oblige !" 

That is the true Noblesse oblige, 

Which arbitrary caste 
(By ignorance unfought,) held siege 

In other epochs — vast 
With opportunities for greed, 

For tyranny and vice — 
To-day ranks far o'er knightly screed, 

Above a kingdom's price ! 

Behold, in honest hearts, and liege 
To fellow-men, Noblesse oblige. 



SOUL SINISTER. 101 

SOUL SINISTER. 



How o'ft, for causes yet untold, 

Are nature's surface beauties marred, 
The warmth from graceful figures barred 

By artifices cruel, cold ! 

How oft' do wit and courage bold 

Seem joined to pulses cannot beat 
In sympathy, but masked retreat 

Behind recesses glooms enfold ! 

How oft' do eyes, that pathos melt 
And seem with clemency alight, 
While urging good, inciting right, 

Yet promptings hide that Hecate felt ! 

Oh ! Fatal curse ! Soul sinister — 

Obscured and vailed by gifts that lead 
Sweet confidence to wastes where bleed 

Hearts, to which none may minister! 

Shine, Truth Supreme! Through cloud and maze 
Let break thy rays, so they reveal 
How knaves thy livery may steal — 

Thy semblance mask, for tortuous ways ! 

On hypocrites imprint the brand — 
The sign, deep-sinister — to warn 
Against their pitfalls, hold to scorn 

Their virtues, which are writ' in sand ! 



102 TRUST NOT APPEARANCES. 



TKUST NOT APPEAKANCES 



Judge men, my son, not by appearances, but acts — 
Not by that which they say, but what thy do ; 
For they who play their real parts, speak their 
thoughts, are few. — 

Indeed, who of his failing would betray the facts 1 

Tis not the priest, who loud descants — in pious 
wrath — 
Of thy declining grace, or with moist unction 

pleads, 
True sympathy of heart most feeleth for thy 
needs, 
Or knoweth best how soothe thy spirit, guide thy 
path. 



'Tis not the swaggart trumpeter of actions brave 
That spurs the serried host to victory or death, 
Or by his presence awes the mob and bates its 
breath, 
Or leads the van — the weak to rescue, faint to 
save. 



TRUST NOT APPEARANCES. 103 

'Tis not the wheedling pettifogger — armed with 
calf 
And legal cap, due-parceled, bound with crim- 
son tape — 
In law most learned, tho' he contrive the fel- 
lon's 'scape, 
Snarl judges grave, and juries move to weep or 
laugh. 



Nor doth the man of pomp, or plausible address, 
In fabric clad of costly loom — of conscious 

wealth, 
Dwelling in frescoed palaces, and vaunting 
health 
And honesty of purpose, yield thee truth's im- 
press. 



Nor doth the ferreting physician's sharp probos- 
cis — 
Assuming nature's shad'wy depths to penetrate, 
To recognize in man the sick from normal state — 

From symptoms always guess the proper diagnosis. 



104 TRUST NOT APPEARANCES. 

Nor can the politician, when all other ways 

To fraud and theft (within the statute) are de- 
barred, 
For patriot's, or sage's, his own guise discard, 
And mount to heights where worth, abiding, meed- 
eth praise. 



And before all, my son, beware those syren sweets 
Or smiles, behind which ever lurk such cruel 

freaks 
That robbed of his best, fondest hope, the man 
who seeks 
In them the charm idealty raises, contact cheats. 



To understand the man, observe how throbs his 
heart; 
Learn whither tend his thoughts, and mark his 

ev'ry deed, 
Distinguishing, in him, the flower from the 
weed — 
The soul of him from that in him which plays a 
part. 



THE LAYS OF A BOHEMIAN. 105 



IV, 



Or chirping fancies frisk and leap 

From idle whims, and seize 
The effervescing thoughts that sweep 

The skies, o'er gale or breeze 
Or whirl with eddies, buff with tide, 

Or pierce the vapid mists, 
Or in the coach of humor ride, 

Or mime in comic lists. 



A Poet's Introspect, (Page iS). 



A SHADE. 107 



A SHADE. 



Alone, a poet gazed upon the sea — 
Musing of man, and life, and destiny, 
And of the wiles by which they mutiny 
Our thoughts and aims, desires and energy. 

The while he mused, twain stars, envisioned, passed 
So thoughtfully before him, that he read — 
Himself unseen — their inner depths, trance-fed 
By sea, and sky, and main, in reverie cast. 

And as the vision glided o'er the strand, 
He knew it was of flesh — a low, pent moan 
Its heart escaping, heedless of his own 
So near — aspiring sympathy's warm hand. 

Onward, afar, away — the image moved, 
Leaving behind a shadow he shall wait 
The substance of in vain — his soul elate, 
At times, with dreaming : " Might we not have 
loved ! " 



108 OCCULT. 



OCCULT. 



"What is't that animates the child 

Shrink from the gloom of night ? — 
With quickened pace, side-glancing wild, 

Throb to regain the light ? — 
At every twig that snaps, a chill 

Feel shooting through each vein? — 
At sound or creak, that breaks the still, 

List', halt, and list' again ? 

What is't that prompts his whistle shrill, 

When threading in the dark ? — 
The empty halls his terrors fill 

With sprites that bid him hark 
For footsteps on the barren stairs, 

And tappings at the sash ? — 
Why doth the wind's moan crisp his hairs ?- 

Why faints he at a crash ? 

What is't that goads him reach his hand 

Far out, as if to guide 
His way, yet shrink from — as a band 

Of fire — the wall beside, 



OCCULT. 109 

'Till strained with groping for a gleam 

Of light, mid' direst gloom, 
There bursts — so long pent up — his scream: 

" Pa ! Some one's in the room ! " 

What is't ! — It is the natural dread 

Of marvels felt — not known, 
Of mysteries, nor 'live, nor dead 

Have ever solved or shown — 
A consciousness there rules some Power, 

For weal or woe, beyond 
The ken of man, or that brief hour 

"We float o'er Life's Profound. 



110 MIS-ALLIED. 



MIS- ALLIED. 



Why question'd she if he a married man, 

When his broad rift of bald, mid' whiten'd hairs, 
And wrinkles — tokening domestic cares — 

Mark'd but too plainly how his youthful impulse 
ran? 

He should have been (of that oft-cited ten) the one 
To never make mistakes, to meet the fate 
Bare born of early wooing. — Ah ! too late 

He met her whom he should have waited for and 
won. 

Aye ! Tho' he might have wooed and wed a score 
of times, 
Tho' vows and altars from his side may bar 
Her sanctioned reign, she is the worshipp'd star 
His heart the sweetest incense wafts e'er moved to 
rhymes. 



A SIGH. Ill 



A SIGH. 



" Alas ! You did not kiss me ? Tis too late, love, 
now ! " 
She murmur'd in the glare, 
And crowd — close-clustered there, 
Knowing that they must part 
For life. 

Why could they not their love by soft caresses 
show? 
Because the world's wise laws, 
And social rules — with claws 
Of iron — mark the chart 
Of life. 

'Tis best, ere with the grief of fancied wrong 
aglow, 
She lit his soul, deep yearned 
For hers, with spark that burned 
So pure it could but start 
In life. 



112 FAIR AND FALSE. 



FAIR AND FALSE. 



Her dark eyes penetrate my soul, 
And all my senses ravish 
By their light; 
Yet I am warned she is a ghole — 
With charms tho' decked so lavish- 
Bearing blight. 



Her smile my heart doth magnetize- 
Melting my weak intention 
To her will; 
Yet calm reflections stigmatize 
Her face a sweet invention 
Framed to kill. 



Her tones entrance — enraptured bind 
Me to her orders, fettered 
Like a slave; 
Tho' well I know that you will find 
Her tale — with shame so lettered — 
Hell might crave. 



FAIR AND FALSE. 113 

Her spell on earth may never break, 
But in its path destruction 
Scatter aye; 
Still hearts betrayed, for her sad sake, 
Pray that some better part may wake 
In her — for faith's instruction — 
Bye and bye. 



114 FIRST LOVE'S ADIEU. 



FIRST LOVE'S ADIEU./ 



It is throbbing in my veins, love, 

Thy hand-clasp at the gate, 
As blushingly we heard, above, 

The old clock strike — so late. 

It is thrilling through my soul, love, 

That last fond kiss of thine, 
Which rose from lips then wont to move 

Responsively to mine. 

It is burning in my heart, love, 
That last fond glance you threw, 

As yearningly you waved your glove — 
First passion's sweet adieu. 



IT CANNOT BE. 115 

IT CANNOT BE. 

A EESPONSE. 



You cross ? — Nay ! but anxious a trifle — 

Perhaps sad, at moments, to think 
Your friend, from whose heart you would rifle 

The pulses, is nearing the brink 
Of life's dread abysses, where stifle 
The hopes that here move as to drink 
Of love from pure streams 
Beginning in dreams, 
To oft' end in utterless woe. 

Ah ! 'Tis I might seem cheerless and cross, 

And tired, for impatience hath led 
Me to seek, with results to hope's loss, 

The pleasures here wanting, since dead 
Youth and sympathy's faith — the dry moss 
Of time hiding scars where love bled, 
'Till faded the dreams 
Once gilding life's streams — 
For joys now encouraged too late. 



116 QUESTIONING. 

QUESTIONING. 



With half-reciprocation, how could she have asked 

Him to inscribe to her — by name — a verse, a line, 

From every echo of whose musings gleamed a 

mine 

Of love so rich that in its rays she might have 

basked ? 

II. 

Will the grand truth yet dawn she has not under- 
stood 
The inspiration lent to poesy by love — 
Whence, flaming, spring his symbols of the pow- 
ers which move 
To faith in her — as the epitome of good ? 

ni. 

May she, when this vale's pilgrimage shall seem 
complete, 
One day recall what he was judged to idly sing, 
With eyes so changed that they shall feel awak- 
ening 
In wierd spheres — doubting if deserved their joys 
to greet ? 



QUESTIONING. 117 



IV. 



Or can she brood, long ere the ending, there may 
be 
A gulf impassible — spreading their hearts be- 
tween, 
Across which both may be so differently seen 
Their now sweet whim shall coldly glare — a phan- 
tasy ? 



118 I FAIN WOULD SOFT PREACH HER. 



I FAIN WOULD SOFT PREACH HER. 



AN ALBUM LEAF. 



A rhyme to arch Emma ? — 
Ah! Dastard the pencil 

Would dare to aspire ! 
Sweet, petite and charming — 
(The thoughts are alarming 

My muse would inspire.) 

(The dear little teacher ! 
I fain would soft preach her 

How fondly I live 
In hope I may reach her — 
A moment beseech her 

Me lessons to give.) 

Yet now that the pleasure 
Is open to measure 

Her virtues in verse, 
I find me unequal 
To utter the sequel 

My longings rehearse. 



I FAIN WOULD SOFT PREACH HER. 119 

Why another word say ? — 
Since my heart would betray 

The feelings imbibed 
From manner, tone, face, 
And a form of such grace 

As ne'er pen described. 



120 NOVEMBER TO MAY.. 

NOVEMBER TO MAY. 

AN ALBUM LEAF. 



Oh! "May," why did you sue cold, bleak 

"November" 
To blight a leaf whereby you might remember 
How poor the thought whose springs must soon 

dismember ? 

Aye ! May, my little friend, fresh, lovely, cheerful, 
Mementoes ask from visions bright — not tearful, 
And younger wits let make your album "Dear"-full. 

For if the boys are now of the same gender 
They were when my old heart was naive and tender 
They'll sing you "Sweet," nor heed ; "Will it 
offend her ? " 

So take your Book; nor doubt, in months ap- 
proaching, 
A dearth of gallants on its leaves encroaching 
With gentler themes than I dare think of 
broaching. 



BY THE SEA. 121 

BY THE SEA. 

TO , A COQUETTE. 



I gave my promise — here my promise keep — 
To write; so now, as looking on the deep, 
Encrested sea, beside which all things seem 
But small, and you the smallest — aye, a dream 
Of dwarfing folly, ( waken' d from, 'tis true,) 
I send the sketch (so idly asked) to you. 



God's mirror of the stars — old ocean blue — 
Heaves its grand symphonies, my senses through 
A thrill of awe inspires, yet peace and rest 
Brings to my troubled heart, invoking quest 
Of nobler hopes than life's small compass yields, 
And holier than spring earth's barren fields. 

Thence landward drift my thoughts — upon the 

strand, 
No grain of which (tho' few will understand,) 
Less useful in the universal plan 
Than bird, or beast, or fish, or fowl, or man, 
And possibly with sense (if hid) as keen 
As man's, and heart as kind — perhaps as mean. 



122 BY THE SEA. 

And thence my eyes revert to tender eyes 
That follow mine, as falling from the skies, 
They pause before the salt waves' broad expanse, 
Sweep o'er the surf, and meet a glowing glance 
From seas that mirror love, as deep, as true 
As ocean gleaming the infinite hue. 

My hand seeks her's responding; gently bends 
Her form, to which divinity soft lends 
An image fashioned slenderly, with grace 
Vouchsafed so rarely here, methinks her place 
Would be more justly 'mid the naiads, crowned 
With purer laurel than in our world found. 

And yet my soul to her outpours its love, 

The while she bends, each word to catch above 

The breakers' roar and sighing undertow, 

And echo back, with cadences so low 

They seem an angel's whisper: " Love, 'tis bliss 

With thee ! " — her whisper sealing with a kiss. 

Oh ! kiss — sweet, pure, entrancing ! Kiss divine ! — 
Eclipsing all the suns the skies that shine, 
Dwarfing the ocean's majesty with love 
No other power above, below can move 



BY THE SEA. 123 



To brave the elements — for of the soul 
Is love, and God's Infinity its goal ! 



I trust my lines all that you hoped may seem, 
Altho' a picture like to read a dream 
To one whose heart has never felt, as yet, 
A deeper throb than moves the vain coquette, 
Who at the voice of lover scornful laughs, 
And deems more tuneful far the lowing calf's. 



124 SHE'LL UNDERSTAND. 

SHE'LL UNDERSTAND. 



I backward look'd, and caught her glance- 

Her glance such volumes speaks, 
And wonder if it was mis-chance 

That beckoned me away; 
Or was't my court'sy doth enhance 

Her charm, that never seeks, 
Or sues, or courts, but — as in trance — 

Its vot'ry holds at bay ? 

Tho' onward I, yet backward e'er 

My thoughts revert, and dwell 
On that weird glance — from eyes that stir 

The soul with passion's wand, 
And wish that I had dared retrace 

My steps, and bravely tell 
How vain the struggle to efface 

My . Ah ! She'll understand ! 



THE LAYS OF A BOHEMIAN. 125 



V. 



Or bubbling quirks the surface rise, 

To ripple for a trice, 
And bring a smile to saddened eyes- 

A moment loose the vice 
That shuts from sympathy its kin 

Or fellowship with mirth — 
Evoking transports that begin 

To mold athwart their birth. 



A Poet's Introspect, (Page 19J. 



MY HOSTAGES. 127 



MY HOSTAGES. 



Four children, ranging in their years 

From fourteen down to nine, 
Group round the board our ev'ning cheers — 

My faithful wife's and mine; 
And as the hours whirl fleetly by — 

At least for her and me — 
A thousand questions oddly ply, 

Amid their books and glee. 



One boy demands : " Why, father, you 

Content to live so plain? — 
Of wiser men there are but few, 

I trow. — Not brilliant Blaine, 
Or bold Ben Butler, spite his wink, 

An abler President 
Could make than you — e'en, sooth, you think 

Their efforts vainly spent." 



128 MY HOSTAGES. 

i( Aye, father," interludes my next: 

" Why not a soldier you ? " 
And following his brothers text: 

" If what they say be true — 
That is, the papers — Grant's a muff ; 

You're brave as he, and smart; 
And if you only cared enough, 

Might play as great a part." 

"Nay ! Pa were, better, Vanderbilt," 

Breaks, earnestly, my third, 
(A girl, of course.) " Then he had built 

A larger house, and stirr'd 
The social world — with diamonds, 

And richest robes, so decked 
Us all, that none could vie — his funds 

Have strown, and never recked." 

My youngest had not ventured yet 

Her sage admonishment; 
Nor was it deemed she might offset — 

To their astonishment — 
By her naive speech, of simplest word, 

Her elders' wisdom rare, 
When, " Pafa ! " Her small voice was heard: 

" I LOVE YOU AS YOU ARE ! 



MY HOSTAGES. 129 

" My children, she most hap'ly reads," 

Spake I, "as nature prints — 
Who faith, and love for kindred pleads, 

And on their lineaments 
Can with a deeper pleasure dwell 

Than in the false acclaim 
From fickle hearts, that idly swell 

The requiems of Fame." 

" Behold your fond old mother, here, 

And on each other look ! 
Then vision, if you can, the year 

Before her hand I took 
Into my keeping, with the pledge — 

So long as life should last — 
'Twould be my dearest privilege 

My fate with her's to cast ! " 

" Her fate, my boys and girls, in you 

Was merged, and with it mine — 
Since Hostages, your mother, true, 

Gave me — their features thine — 
For fortune, fame, society — 

The gods of folly's chase. — 
Aye ! You're my soul's satiety — 

My care, my hope, my grace ! 



130 MY HOSTAGES. 

" Fame's fleetly lost, when fairly won — 

And fairly won by few; — 
Great wealth, by honest dealing, none 

Have gained, that I e'er knew; — 
And it is custom's phrase to call 

" Society " its masks — 
Its joys, those cloy — its scenes, those pall — 

Its aims, those honor tasks. 

" But you, my children ! You, my wife ! 

Leave me no wish for fame — 
No thought of wealth beyond the life 

Of home (of which the name 
Were, fitter, ' wealth ' than that which ends 

Possession with the breath,) — 
no thought or wish for aught amends 

Your love — surviving death! " 



BONBONI&RE. 131 



BONBONIERE. 



TO "NONPAREIL. 



Dream'st thou, little candy-girl, 

The melting glances from thine eye — 
Sweeter than all the sweets I buy — 
Spin my emotions to a whirl 

Thou might'st suppress 
With one caress ? 

Thy winsome hands my bon-bons bind, 
Pray let me, sweet, in mine enfold 
Just long enough to prove their hold 
On my poor heart, which spurs my mind 
To bold confess 
Thy power to bless ! 

No ? — Then, anon, should'st seek a friend 
From out the crowds that daily throng 
Thy mart — unmoved to love's wild song, 
Wilt kindly deign a carrier send 
With thy address ? — 
(My answer guess.) 



132 BONBONIERE. 

Fear not the " mallow's " thy dear fate, 
The "jujube's," or the " caramel's," 
Shouldst yield thy charms to love that wells 
From founts which yearn to estimate 
Aught may oppress 
Thee, and redress. 

Should I devour thee — with mine eyes, 
And with my lips — thy rose-bloom rain, 
And, love protesting, kiss again 
Thy hands, thy brow, thine all, sweet prize ! 
Could'st thou repress 
My tenderness ? 

Ah ! unto pleasures I would lead 
Thee, love, with me so en rapport, 
Our hearts should vie which most could court, 
Which best express, which gentlest plead 
The truths that bless 
This vale's duress. 

Altho' 'tis not in letters writ 

How souls — by passion moved — may beat; 
Nor can the lute's soft chord repeat 
The melodies with love are lit. — 
May they possess 
Thee, Conjuress ! 



A FEW CABRIER-MOULTINQS. 133 

A FEW CARRIER-MOULTINGS. 



AGE MATTERS NOT TO ME. 

If I were only twenty-five, 
My little Nell could love me; 

But (as near fifty I arrive,) 
She simply says she likes me ! 
(Or is the word a blur?) 

Yet I love her, as I'm alive, 
And by the Powers above me ! 

If I were sixty, vain to strive 
The feeling hide that strikes me 
Whene'er I think of her ! 



DOLLY WOULD NOT WAIT. 

Ah ! Hapless hour — decreed 
The saddest of my fate, 

Since Dolly would not heed 
My spirit's bidding : Wait ! 

For in my heart there burned 
The fire of hope, divine — 

Inspired by love; — I yearned 
My Sun, to-day, might shine ! 



134 A FEW CARRIER-MOULTINGS. 

NO TIDING. 

Is she ailing? I am; for no tiding 
(Tho' due for two long days) of her 

From whose eye in vain I'd be hiding 
The feeling with which hope doth stir 
The innermost depth of my heart. 

And I watch ! And I wait ! with dull longing 
(The carrier's step may be heard,) 

To receive from the dear hand belonging 
To me (in my dreams) but one word — 
To soothe my tumultuous heart. 



A TANG-LEAF. 



The bright sea-beach of Long Branch ; 

The breakers' peaceful woo; 
The grateful breeze; the guards' launch; 

The yachtsmen, and their crew; 
The man from town, from wild ranche; 

The children's playful coo ; 
The changes — at each turn — Blanche, 

Ne'er rob my thoughts from you ! 



DEPENDING UPON CIRCUMSTANCES. 135 



DEPENDING UPON CIKCUMSTANCES. 



A MARCH BALLAD. 



I know a little maiden 

Who grieved that she was born 
When all things seemed upbraiden 

By heaven — held in scorn 
By earth and sky, so laden 

With sleet from clouds forlorn, 
I blame her not, since Eden 

Her graces might adorn. 

This maiden sighed : " Why was I 

Born in the month so drear ? — 
I hope 'tis not because I 

Some penalty must fear 
From sins or crimes ancestral 

My generation shade 
With omens borne on mistral, 

'Neath glooms nor break, nor fade. 

" I pray it may not augur 
Hi-destiny for me — 
A life of sorrow, mauger 
The charm and peace I see, 



136 DEPENDING UPON CIRCUMSTANCES. 

On every side, to others 

Vouchsafed in some degree; — 

Alas ! This March air smothers 
Joy and expectancy ! " 

When thus the maid had spoken, 

I took her hand in mine — 
A moment seized (ere broken 

Her current) to entwine 
Her waist, and gently press her 

My heart on — whisp'ring arch : 
" She — willing I'd caress her — 

Must have been born in March. " 

She coyly pshawed and pouted; 

But I my theme pursued: 
" The month must not be scouted 

When thou first chirped and cooed. 
And know thee more: — If routed, 

Poor March, not I had wooed 
This small white hand, or doubted 

If e'er thou wouldst I should." 

" In March ! — Thou born in March, sir? 1 
My friend, protestful, asked; — 
(The winds you've seen the larch stir; 
With equal grace, when tasked 



DEPENDING UPON CIRCUMSTANCES. 137 

My love to list', and answer — 
In altered tones, she plead :) 
"March storms, near thee, enchant, sir;— 
I knew not what I said ! " 

*' Aye, sweet ! " I added, e ' Cases 

Are changed by circumstance ' — 
Since hinge on fickle bases 

All incidents of chance. 
So things, if missed their places, 

Will seem perplexed, perverse ; 
And ever lost are traces 

Of hearts — no love to nurse. 

*' The soul — and not the season- 
Hath faculty of tears; 

The pulse — without a reason 
Beats joy, defies the years. — 

June, without thee, were dreary, 
Whilst March, near thee, is heaven. 

My life, thou guiding, cheery 
Wakes; — vanished thou, 'twere riven/' 



138 A VALENTINE. 



A VALENTINE. 



Of love accept an avalanche — 

Not borne on glaciers chill — 
But warming with caresses, Blanche, 

Thy heart and soul to thrill — 
Sweet currents burning to bestow 

On lips of cherry hue, 
On eyes that melt, and flash, and glow, 

On dainty hands that do — 
With grace — what love did beg requite — 

The single favor mine, 
Because, perhaps, theirs/ — to write 

A name — dear, dearest, Thine — 

Made now My Valentine. 



THE LAYS OF A BOHEMIAN. 139 



VI. 



Or wild caprices, with their fumes 

And vapors, wierdly glow 
Above the hum of labor's looms, 

Yet far the stars below — 
In frolic verse, or rollic rhymes, 

Wild warbles fife, or freaks 
Fantastically ring on chimes, 

'Mid laughter's gleeful shrieks. 



A Poet's Introspect, (Page 19J. 



THE PORTENT. 141 



THE PORTENT. 



So cheeringly she met him at the gate — 
As if his greeting she could hardly wait, 
And held, as her fond wont, in former time, 
To his her lips — sweet-perfumed, as with thyme, 
He thought regrets had come to his defense, 
Her heart resolved — with her recovered sense — 
To make his life less wretched than before — 
To show, earth held for him some peace in store. 



A dinner, such as known he doted on, 

Lay spread so daintily, so noted on 

Its dishes care to please his appetite, 

He felt as if had entered a new light 

Upon his wedded fate, 'shamed to have learned, 

So late, how his glum shade and speech were 

turned 
Forgivingly in the remembrance kind 
Of her, to whose 'rapt int'rest he so blind. 



142 TEE PORTENT. 

And such an evening! Taper fingers dwelt 

So softly on the organ's keys, he felt 

Borne down the past, beyond their honeymoon, 

Reminded of its ending — all too soon — 

For reason, he, impulsive, could not mold 

To her's his abrupt ways, could not unfold, 

Weeks, months ago, the blossom — see how sweet ! 

From her dear heart exhaling love complete. 



And when the morning dawned, his angel rose 
Long ere he could his torpid lids unclose. 
Descended, from the breakfast-room her voice 
Invited him to fruit — rare, ripe and choice, 
Yet whetted more his palate by her sigh 
At sorrow he so soon must bid good-bye. 
Mournful, she kissed adieu, in his her hand, 
When, struck her thought, as by a magic wand, 
She spake: " To-morrow, sweet, is opening-day. 
You'll not expect me, love, at home to stay? — 
And may I have another hundred ? Say ! " 



TWO ANTIQUARIAN MODELS. 143 

TWO ANTIQUARIAN MODELS. 

APROPOS, HOWEVER, OF ALL AGES ANL GENERATIONS. 



THE FIRST. 

HIS ST. VALENTINE'S ODE — TO HIS GRANDSON. 

She purred so naively, my weak heart 

A tender palpitation felt; 
But when I stroked her, in good part, 

She scratched, and raised a cruel welt — 

The Cat ! 

So cunningly and soft she stole, 

My earnest moods and aims despite, 

Into my humors, that my soul 
Revolted at her vicious bite — 

The Serpent! 

For every whim she wheedled me; 

Yet when meek I would humbly ask 
A grain of human sympathy, 

She'd kick, or balk it — as a task, — 

The Mule ! 

Now, if you would all these combine 

Of Eve's known graces, choose, you fool, 

A maid — to merge your fate condign, 
And thenceforth brook the fickle rule 
Of cat, of serpent and of mule. 



144 TWO ANTIQUARIAN MODELS. 

THE SECOND. 

HER ST. VALENTINE'S ODE — TO HER GRAND-DAUGHTER. 

Lone and silent he reposes, 

With such calm insouciance, 
That his bed seems one of roses 

'Till he grunts — and breaks the trance — 

The Hog! 

Sinisterly he approaches, 

And the careless list'ner fills 
"With the plaints a suitor broaches 

When he coos — 'till dart his quills — 

The Porcupine ! 

By his own voice thrill'd with rapture, 

Wildly cackles he : " I'll give 
Every dollar I can capture 

For my service if you'll live ! — " 

The Goose ! 

Ne'ermore seek, through long instalments, 

Romance here condensed in bulk; 
If you'd feel this life's enthralments 

With acuteness, draw some hulk 
From the lottery of Hymen, 
On love's altar slip the noose, 

And be hence reminded by men 
Of hog, porcupine and goose ! 



JENNIE BRADSHAW. 145 

JENNIE BKADSHAW. g 



I. 

" Oh ! who was that girl, so dashing and blithe, 
Her features so charming and form so lithe, 
Of the hazel eye and roseate cheek, 
"With an air of pride and a dash of pique, 
And the 'witching smile of a gay coquette ? — 
Oh ! answer; who is this maid that I met — 
That with you in the private-box I saw, 
A night or two since at the opera ? " 
I replied : " Tom, lovely Miss Jennie Bradshaw." 

II. 

"Who was that damsel, so gentle and sad, 
So queenly in air, and tastefully clad, 
"With the melting brown orb, of hueless cheek, 
So noble in carriage, and yet so meek, 
With a seraph's glance, and an angel's smile — 
Full of expression and free from guile ? — 
Oh ! who was this maiden I saw with you, 
Arm-in-arm, promenading the avenue ? " 
" Ah ! Ned, she is peerless Miss Jennie Brad- 
shaw." 

ni. 

" Who was that maid at the Park, by-the-bye. 
Of the sweet modest face and swimming blue eye, 



146 JENNIE BRADSHAW. 

With daintiest form and a dimpled cheek, 
And a gypsy hat, and the charming freak 
Of a merry laugh, whose echo yet thrills 
Through the ' Ramble's ' groves and miniature 

hills 
In memory, since that lovely day ? — 
Oh ! who is this lass, my good fellow, say ? " — 
" Dear Jack, she's celestial Miss Jennie Brad- 
shaw." 

IV. 

" Hold on ! " cried Sol, " I've a question to ask : 
Who was she, pray, in the dark-velvet basque, 
That entered the church last evening with you, 
And with whom you were seated in Deacon Job's 

pew? 
She wore golden curls that shaded a face 
Refulgent with heavenly love and grace; 
And her eye — an intelligent, beaming gray — 
Made cheerful her smile, and winsome her way?" — 
" Why, Sol ! My divinity, Jennie Bradshaw." 

V. 

To every query of whom he saw 
With me, I would answer: " Jennie Bradshaw;" 
Whene'er the home-folks asked: "Whither to- 
night?" 



JENNIE BRADSHAW. 147 

Jennie Bradshaw was the cause of my flight; 
In church, at the theatre, or soiree, 
On the road, the avenue, or Broadway, 
In the Park, at the opera, ever the same — 
I always repeated that chosen name, 
^Responding: "The darling! Miss Jennie Brad- 
shaw." 

VI. 

Hence, many an unwitting lass received 
This innocent christ'ning, and ne'er believed 
That thus her charms or faults were united 
To Jennie^ whom the boys swore I had plighted, 
Because, whenever the question was made, 
I repeatedly answer'd the self-same maid — 
And her name had ever from doubt been free, 
But that one sad night, to supper with me 
I invited some friends who'd met " Jennie Brad- 
shaw." 

vn. 

" Jennie Bradshaw has a sweet hazel eye," 
Commenced chum Tom, with a wink and a sigh; 
" Not hazel," hints Ned; " you mean a sad black:" 
" You're both wrong, boys; it's a soft blue," says 

Jack: 
" It's gray ! " cries Sol; " for I'll never forget 
Her pious glance in the church that I met." — 



148 JENNIE BBADSHAW, 

Thus, at my board, the discussion arose, 
'Till at length, from mouth to mouth the cry 
goes: 
" Let's have a description of Jennie Bradshaw! " 

vni. 

" Dear Jennie's a myth," I finally spoke: 
" There's no use longer concealing the joke, — 
That when my friends have, importunate, tried 
To learn the name of the girl at my side, 
Or the name of the lass with whom I've spent 
The morning or eve, evasive I've sent 
Them all, sincerely believing the same — 
That this of my rhyme is my charmer's name. — 
So, boys, fill your bumpers; here's 'Jennie Brad- 
shaw!'" 

IX. 

Without drawing the moral my story presents, 
I'll keep you a moment, to say that from thence, 
From the night of our supper to this of my 

rhyme, 
When I've been met with a lass, every time 
That I leave my door for a quiet call, 
I witness a smile, or a laugh in the hall. — 
My friends, with a grin or nudge by the way, 
Will point to the girl by my side, and say: 
" Prolific and charming Miss Jennie Bradshaw ! " 



THE LAYS OF A BOHEMIAN. 149 



VII. 



Or satire, musing Damascene, 

Hypocri sy lays bare, 
And falsehood pricks with blade so keen 

That honesty seems fair, 
Sweet virtue for a moment blest — 

Alike for drones and plods, 
Rare truth aroused from stubborn rest — 

The scale of justice God's. 



A PoeVs Introspect, (Page 19J. 



AMONG THE RECRUITS. 151 



AMONG THE RECRUITS, k 



I. 
I donned my hat, when read the news, 
And 'mong the soldiers took a cruise. 
I crossed the park, where spread the camp — 
Recruits heard curse, in quarters cramp — 
At mess espied them munch stale pork 
And hard-tack, without knife or fork — 
Caught speech of distant homes, when wept 
A few, whilst others fumed or slept; — 
Thence, as from charnel-house, I crept. 

H. 

Threading, anon, the noisy street, 
My sight I doubted when 'twould greet — 
The first — Tom Smith, adown whose pants 
Coursed a stripe that shocked my glance. 
With woeful stare, I scanned his clothes, 
Exclaimed: " Poor Tom, where got you those ? 
" I signed while fuddled," he replied — 
As, waving an adieu, he sighed, 
And I, reflective, onward hied. 

III. 

Before I'd walked another block, 
I felt a poke from musket-stock; 



152 AMONG THE RECRUITS. 

And Bradshaw, ever brimming fun, 
Hailed me with his burnished gun — 
To my grave asking: " What it meant," 
Kejoined: "I hadn't left a cent; 
" My business dead, no more could find; 
" My pockets empty, fled my mind; 
" In fit of sheer despair I signed." 

IV. 

I wished Jack Bradshaw best of cheer, 
And parting — not without a tear, 
Had bare renewed my promenade 
Ere on my arm a grasp was laid, 
And Johnson, a la militaire, 
Saluted me with pompous air — 
Responded to my question why 
He left his home — perhaps to die : 
" D'ye see these epaulettes, my eye ? " 



Leaving Johnson, arms akimbo, 

Strutting in his hotel window, 

I would have sped my way through town, 

But was arrested by old Brown. — 

Brown has a family and wife — 

The last a torment to his life. 



AMONG THE RECRUITS. 153 

Anent I spake, he cried : " From you 
Vain to conceal, my wife's a shrew. — 
Pray ! save enlist, what could I do ? " 

VI. 

After, came Jones — Brown's former clerk — 
Embreeched and turban'd like a Turk. 
The while I paused, he screwed his eye 
As if he might, but would not cry. 
His face was pale, his form was bowed, 
And on his forehead sate a cloud. 
I'd not revert to — well I knew — 
What made the fellow look so blue : 
Tho' she'd proved false, his love was true ! 

VII. 

Of the many " braves " I've met, 

Self-confessed stands each, as yet, 

He 'listed desperate or drunk, 

From thwarted love or business sunk, 

For commission, or subsistence 

Or to 'scape a damned existence. — 

"While breath with smoke or liquor teemed, 

He brooding, weak, or thoughtless seemed, 

And ne'er of coming battle dreamed. 



154 THE MERCENARY WOMAN. 

THE MEKCENABY WOMAN, m 



She seemed so fresh, so bright, so pure, 

When first I scanned her face, 
I could have sworn— I felt so sure — 

Her heart was in its place ; 
But ere we could our views exchange 

On half a dozen themes, 
I found she was quite out of range 

Of my poetic dreams. 

I did imagine hers might be 

A sympathetic heart — 
Her eyelids drooped so pensively, 

So quick the red did start 
To cheek and brow whene'er I spake 

Of dear domestic things; 
She seemed — truth owned — to almost make 

Me doubt less she wore wings. 

Soft, melting eye, and gentlest tone; 

Complexion of the rose ; 
With bust of Hebe, and such a zone 

As waist of nymph might close ; 
How commonplace they all did seem, 

When dropping but a phrase, 
She suddenly dispelled my dream — 

My momentary daze ! 



THE MERCENARY WOMAN. 155 

A wretched sentiment, expressed 

Through beauty's cherry pout; 
A look, when cruelly impressed 

On features souls might rout; 
An act or movement, to denote 

The face is but a mask, 
The soft voice but a syren's note — 

Who'll my conclusion ask ? 

My pretty guest did but observe : 

"We never could agree; 
My style he could not well preserve, 

He was so poor, you see." 
Yet, that one thought, with its context 

Of mercenary pride, 
Led me to pray, the woman next 

I met, her greed might hide. 

Indeed, cracked tones and crippled form, 

And features creased with care— 
So long as under all glows warm 

A heart — seem far more fair 
Than faultless figure, mellow strain, 

Or dimpled cheek, bright-hued, 
A woman masking — cold and vain, 

With lucre's thirst imbued. 



156 BE CAN PLAY ON THE PIANO. 

HE CAN PLAY ON THE PIANO. 



He's a dwarfish, curly fellow, 

Cannot brew, or baste, or knead, 
Plow or reap the fallow mead, 
Hoe or plant the jdelding seed, 
Delve or trade, indite or plead; — 

Then, — why thus his presence bellow ? 

Charon's muses cannot help it; 

For know, this bright icono 

(Like leper in a bagnio, 

Or kite on isle guano,) 

Has forte — at the piano. — 
" Drown his thrum ! " The styx dogs yelp it ! 

He can play on the piano; 

But his list'ners ! — Can they bide 
Agonizing strains that tide 
O'er the keys, where wildly stride 
Art's rare touches ? — They'll decide, 

With me : Give praise morgano ! 



SACREDLY INVESTED. 157 



SACREDLY INVESTED. 



A Million Dollars ! — They would yield, 

At four per cent, (the ruling rate 
Since Billionaires have won " the field " 

From freedom's sway, and mold the State,) 
Forty thousand dollars yearly — 

Tho' said principal now bears naught 
Save that piety which, queerly, 

Thinks " put," " call," and " straddle " bought 
For " futures " can be, in God's Temple. 

The Congregation must have deemed 

Their Million well invested, since 
The SaVry of their Mouthpiece seemed 

A bagatelle — altho' a Prince 
Whose titles (in more than one land) 

Are at a discount, would be glad 
Of per annum Twenty Thousand 

Him to save from the Vert Bad. — 
An eleemoosinary sample. 

Then, again, the Undertaker, 

(And his satellites — the ushers,) 
" Classic " choir, and organ-slaker, 

And that band of milk-and-mushers 



158 SACREDLY INVESTED. 

Yclept as "trustees," "deacons," "elders," 

"With the sev'ral " incidentals " — 
Not omitting the waste gilders 

Charged to "tracts " and "fundamentals," — 
Make Salvation quite a Gamble. 

Calculate the problem, slowly: — 

Ninety thousand dollars, you'll find, 
Mark the " chips " so high, the Lowly — 

(If they think the Eyes of God blind 
By the spire gold has erected, 

Or from heaven all save pew own. 
As from church, by saints ejected — ) 

View their " chance " a very rue one. — 
So the humble, Sundays, ramble. 

" Pshaw ! Damn the humble ! Why heed we 

Misery, hunger, want or thirst 
Out of wealth's pale ? " — Gold speaking thus, 'curst 

Deems his priest faith meek, barefooted, 
And God's Ministry, 'neath sky's dome — 

'Curst all piety not rooted, 
Hard and cold, to the stones that tomb 
Hundreds now dead 
For want of bread ! 
Hymns he : " Scramble ! All's a gamble ! " 



TO MY CRITIC. 159 

TO MY CEITIC. 



Are you, whose pen would annotate a text of mine, 
By judgment guided one whit riper — more divine 
Than other men's ? 



Whose gift the better to select, 
Than you, the words should dress your thought ? 

Would you reflect 
My moods, then, or my whims ? 

Sooth grant, with my sense none 
Can phrase or weld accordantly as I have done, 
Since no machine doth work like mine of Jove's in- 
voice — 
Or will, so long as Procreation's Pow'rs rejoice. 

My mold distinct from your's as David's from St 

Mark's — 
As Milton's from Dean Swift's, or Scott's or Jared 

Sparks' — 
As Byron's, Bolingbroke's, or Goldsmith's from 

Montaigne's — 
As Pope's, or Sheridan's, or Lamb's from GL F. 

Train's — 



160 TO MY CRITIC. 

As Bulwer's, or as Thackeray's from Joaquin Mil- 
ler's, 
Or any prosing screed's, or rhyming caterpillar's — 
Of all the medley memory may nimbly trill, 
From Clio's phalanx, life and legend leave us still. 

Therefore, my bent no worldling may presume en- 
join 
To change old words, remodel new, or phrases coin 
From my impress, to give a glimmer of the loin 
The brain, called mine, doth guide, or brain my 

loin doth run — 
(No matter where to end, or wherefore either 

spun,) 
The loin and brain my lot — than those of other men 
More true to me — of equal use and worth, I ken, 
To the Occasion First, the Cause of them and me, 
Or Aim that squirms life's puppets in the span or sea 
Of Jove's Infinitude. 

To me, at least, mine bring 
More pleasure than from other web or woof may 

spring — 
More certainly than his whose pastime is to sting, 
And not to heal, the suff'ring sense— of blunders 



TO MY CRITIC. 161 

The birth — for festers root — for flowers snuff that 

stale — 
For stenches grope and ferret — balms refuse in- 
hale. — 
Such will full tribute pay his morbid spleen's de- 
mand — 
His humid exudations spread with rancorous hand 
O'er my free pages, tributary to his brand 
Not less than to the reader who shall, keen, descry 
Herein a target for grim satire's mockery; 
Or to the heart, indulgent, smiles, or laughs in glee 
At conning stanzas that affect it mirthfully; 
Or to responsive thought, from which my verse 

shall call 
Forth grateful echoes; or to currents, found in all 
So varying with humors, circumstances, years, 
They'll move some to reflection, some to jests, some 
sneers. 



Alas! Sir Gloatful Critic ? How could you survive, 
Except, behold ! the opportunities arrive 
(As, now and then, rash amateurs rush into print,) 
To pen your variations on the threadbare hint — 
Your theme: " A book's a book, altho' there's noth- 
ing in't?" 



162 TO MY CRITIC. 

Indeed, so often troped and cited, without stint, 
By you this pregnant judgment on the unfledged 

scribe 
Dare brook your with'ring censure, stricture, glance 

or gibe, 
'Twould be your blazoned motto, and surmount 

your crest 
If heraldry had not been flouted, put to rest 
With other barb'rous relics of earth's feudal age, 
As critics will be, in the next, who carp and rage 
Amid the scandals mark our growing daily page. 



Meanwhile, Jove save your shadow for the place it 

fits— 
As truly your's as clown's or drudge's, bard's or 

wit's 
Are their's respectively. As dear, as due, your 

right 
As an appendix to my mime of Pean's flight 
To hang your knotted lash, as my own restless 

boy's 
To tail the Japan hawk with which he, sportive, 

toys,— 
Especially, since each his plaything so enjoys 



TO MY CRITIC. 163 

To see cavorting in the winds that sweep the sky — 
The boy, because he'd have his captive soar and fly 
Beyond the stars — if storms might wait and cord 

might last; 
And you, my critic, that a gale might swell — to 

blast 
Your kite, and drive it earthward — to be thrust 
Mid' briars, or swamps, or stones, or trampled in 

the dust. 



My conscience frank and free, contentedly I wait 
Each new diversion, frown, crank, freak or turn of 

fate — 
As I have humbly, hap'ly learned to do, of late, 
Invoking Jove may suffer you to wisely rate 
My Lays, as they shall merit, in His broad estate — 
Assessed and taxed, according as they may belong 
To marsh or fallow — with His harvest land along, 
Or rankling His salt-meadow — and not worth a 

song. 



THE LAYS OF A BOHEMIAN. 165 

NOTES. 



o. (Page 32.) First printed in the American Art Journal, Sep- 
tember 17, 1 88 1. 

b. (Page 54.) "My Spring is Here" was first published in the 
N. Y. Daily Graphic, March 22, 1884. 

c. (Page 72.) This poem originally appeared in the American Art 
Journal, June 25, 1881. With the exceptions noted below (and a 
few others unnecessary to her particularize), " My Sanctum " is 
the author's earliest metrical essay contained in these pages. 
Its interest may, possibly, seem confined to his surroundings, or 
personal to his situation, at the time of its appearance — when his 
offices (as well Sanctum, or study,) pleasantly faced Union Square 
on the west. 

A congenial neighbor, at the period referred to, was Mr. Thorns, 
the proprietor of the Art Journal — to whose publication ''My 
Sanctum " was naturally contributed. 

d. (Page 80.) "In Memoriam " was an impromptu (tho' very 
inadequate) tribute to the memory of Miss Alice C. Earl, formerly 
Secretary to the author, who died, of hereditary consumption, 
on September nth, 1884, and whose obsequies were observed from 
her late home, in Newark, N. J., on the 14th of the same month. 
Within two years prior to her decease, both of Miss Earl's par- 
ents had succumbed to the same dread malady ; so that her death 
may be said to have been pre-determined, no less than premature. 

/. (Page 114.) This trifle was originally published in 1865 — tho' 
among the earliest of the writer's essays at versification; and it is 
now accessible through its having been cut from print and pre- 
served in the scrap-book collection of a friend. 

g. (Page 145.) "Jennie Bradshaw," produced first in the N. Y. 
Weekly Mercury, in June, 1861. is accessible under circumstances 
similar to those last above mentioned. 



166 NOTES. 

k. (Page 151.) "Among the Recruits" was published in the N.Y. 
Sunday Times, in the summer of 186 1, when the fever of patriotism 
burned at so high a degree that it was deemed a necessary precau- 
tion, by the manager of that paper, to editorially disavow all respon- 
sibility for its expressions. A few incidents to its appearance 
(which might be historically interesting and pertinent, in other 
connections,) it is not required to detail here. 

The rhymes (for they may, at least, be so designated, ) annotated 
/, g and k, are (with the exception of his first metrical composition 
— in August, 1856,) the author's only attempt at versification prior 
to 1 88 1, which have been preserved. The exception parenthesized 
— called "The Mission Priest" — was printed in the Mercury, 
of which the literary department was conducted by Mr. Newell (Or- 
pheus C. Ker,) in 1861. Indeed, with these exceptions, all the 
earlier offspring of the author's muse (as well as prose 
manuscript, and the plans or germs of verse,) were destroyed by 
conflagration, in the month of April, 1878. His verses, at that time 
lost, were a small part of the writer's accumulated work— literature 
having been tormerly his avocation for a livelihood. These state- 
ments are made, not in any mood of regret, but as matters of fact — 
to which maybe added: With the three exceptions above indicated, 
the verses contained in this volume are published— as they were 
written — for the author's personal diversion, as will (or may have 
been) inferred from their tone and substance, or their want of either 
or both. And with the exceptions annotated, none of the verses 
herein contained have ever before appeared in published form or 
print. 

771. (Page 154.) "The Mercenary Woman " first appeared in the 
American Art Journal, of December 10, 1881. 



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